JACK    RAYMOND 


BY 

E.  L.  VOYNICH 

AUTHOR    OF 

"THE     GADFLY" 


'Judge,  I  pray  you,  betwixt  me  and  my  vineyard' 


SECOND       EDITION 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY 
1901 


Copyright,  1901,  by  WILLIAM  HKINRMANN. 


Copyright,  1901,  by  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 


JACK  RAYMOND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  So  this  is  what  you  call  a  good  road  here- 
abouts, is  it?"  said  Dr.  Jenkins. 

He  had  stopped  half-way  up  the  hill,  to  look 
about  him,  and  to  let  Timothy,  the  fisherman 
who  had  met  him  at  the  station,  put  down  the 
heavy  bag  and  rest  a  bit  before  climbing  any 
further.  Behind  them  the  steep  road  wound 
in  and  out  between  rough  granite  blocks  and 
tussocks  of  dwarf  gorse.  Before  them  it  rose 
up  sharply,  a  stony  track  bordered  by  wet  and 
withered  heather  tufts ;  and  turned,  passing 
out  of  sight  round  the  shoulder  of  a  lichened 
rock.  For  the  rest,  a  waste  of  barren  moor- 
land ;  an  angry  sun  going  down,  red  in  a  fiery 
glow ;  a  fierce  north  wind  that  rushed  by, 
shrieking  curses  ;  and  below  the  cliffs  a  sullen, 
moaning,  desperate  sea ;  that  was  all.  On 

2138766 


2  JACK   RAYMOND. 

summer  days  the  moor  might  wear  a  brighter 
face  among  the  gold  and  purple  glories  of  its 
flowering  time ;  even  this  ashen  sea  had 
doubtless  green  or  blue  delights  to  show  on 
sunny  mornings  after  rain ;  but  this  was  the 
doctor's  first  glimpse  of  Cornwall,  and  in  the 
December  evening  every  thing  seemed  to  him 
chill  and  bleak  and  desolate. 

The  sun  dipped,  leaving  a  long  red  trail 
across  the  water,  a  bloody  finger-mark  that 
the  waves  made  haste  to  wash  out.  Timothy 
picked  up  the  bag  again. 

"  It's  not  so  far  now,  sir ;  we  shall  be  in 
before  dark.  Eh,  why  surely  that  be  Maaster 
Richards  from  Gurnard's  Head,  and  the  old 
woman  with  him.  Good  evening,  maaster  ! " 

A  pony-cart  laden  with  apples  jogged  round 
the  projecting  shoulder  of  the  granite  rock. 
Farmer  and  pony  walked  side  by  side  ;  but 
for  the  difference  in  the  number  of  legs  they 
might  have  been  twin  brothers,  so  much  alike 
they  were  in  expression,  in  roundness  of  com- 
fortable figure,  in  solid  evenness  of  tread.  In 
the  cart,  among  the  apples,  sat  an  old  woman, 
half  asleep. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  3 

"  This  is  the  new  doctor  for  Porthcarrick," 
said  Timothy.  "  We  shall  have  two  doctors 
now,  for  old  Dr.  Williams  is  stopping  on, 
though  he's  past  much  work.  Are  you 
rested  now,  sir  ?  " 

They  climbed  a  little  further,  while  Farmer 
Richards  and  his  pony  jogged  slowly  down 
the  hill. 

"  Hullo  ! "  said  the  doctor,  looking  round. 
"  Something's  wrong  with  the  old  fellow's 
cart.  Look,  he's  making  signs  to  us.  What 
is  it?" 

The  farmer  was  gesticulating  frantically 
with  his  whip,  and  trying  to  shout  louder 
than  the  angry  wind. 

"  Police  ! "  he  yelled  in  a  despairing  voice. 
"  Murder  !  Help  !  Police  !  " 

"'  In  all  time  of  our  tribulation'!"  gasped 
the  old  woman,  folding  her  hands.  "It's  the 
gang." 

A  big,  muscular,  black-haired  boy,  with  a 
skin  tanned  almost  to  coffee-colour,  and  a  face 
which  struck  the  doctor  as  repulsively  ugly, 
came  tearing  over  the  brow  of  the  hill.  A 
score  of  minor  demons  followed  at  his  heels, 


4  JACK   RAYMOND. 

brandishing  sticks  and  yelling  ferociously. 
The  gang  descended  with  such  suddenness, 
that  before  the  farmer  could  defend  himself 
the  pony  was  unhooked  from  the  shafts  and 
the  old  woman  stood  wailing  by  the  roadside, 
wringing  her  hands  at  the  sight  of  the  over- 
turned cart  and  the  apples  rolling  in  the  mud. 
As  Timothy  and  the  doctor  came  running 
back,  the  farmer  recovered  heart  of  grace  and 
laid  about  him  with  his  whip.  After  a  sharp 
skirmish  the  gang  broke  and  fled  in  all  direc- 
tions down  the  hill,  yelling  and  screeching, 
with  bulging  pockets  crammed  with  apples. 
Pursuit  seemed  to  be  hopeless  ;  but  in  the  act 
of  escaping,  one  of  the  boys,  a  freckled,  lanky 
hobbledehoy,  caught  his  foot  against  a  stone 
and  fell  sprawling.  The  farmer  pounced 
upon  him  instantly. 

"  Jack  ! "  shrieked  the  captive.  "  Jack  ! " 
The  leader  bounded  to  the  spot,  tripped  up 
the  top-heavy  farmer  with  a  dexterous  twist 
of  one  foot,  dragged  the  fallen  boy  up  by  the 
collar,  and  despatched  him  at  a  headlong  pace 
downhill  by  a  thump  between  the  shoulders. 
Then  he  glanced  round  to  see  if  any  one  else 


JACK   RAYMOND.  5 

were  in  need  of  help.  It  was  evidently  an 
established  convention  that  he  should  be  the 
first  to  charge  and  the  last  to  flee.  As  he 
turned  to  follow  the  gang  a  hand  dropped  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  I've  caught  one,  at  any  rate,"  said  Dr. 
Jenkins.  "  No,  don't  hit  him,"  he  added, 
intercepting  the  farmer's  fist.  "  And  all  that 
bad  language  won't  get  your  cart  up,  my  man  ; 
Timothy,  help  him  with  the  cart,  and  leave 
the  boy  to  me." 

The  farmer,  still  swearing,  went  to  join 
Timothy,  who  was  trying  to  lift  the  cart ;  the 
old  woman  meanwhile  collecting  the  scattered 
apples. 

"  Well,  you're  a  promising  young  devil,* 
said  Dr.  Jenkins  to  his  prisoner,  who  was 
wriggling  in  his  grasp  like  a  conger  eel. 
"  What's  your  name  ?  " 

"What's  yours?" 

"  Lord  bless  you,  sir,"  said  Timothy, 
"  that's  Jack  Raymond.  He  be  nephew  to 
our  vicar." 

"  And  own  son  to  Beelzebub,"  the  fanner 
muttered  from  between  the  wheels. 


6  JACK    RAYMOND. 

The  swarthy  imp  grinned  at  the  compli- 
ment, showing  his  white  teeth. 

"  Nephew  ...  to  the  Vicar  ! "  Dr.  Jen- 
kins repeated  incredulously.  "  Here,  stand  up, 
boy ;  don't  wriggle  about  so.  I  won't  hurt 
you." 

Jack's  eyes  opened  wide  in  scornful  amaze- 
ment, and  the  doctor  saw  how  dusky  and  yet 
how  luminous  they  were. 

"  I  should  just  about  think  you  wouldn't !" 

He  left  off  kicking,  however,  and  stood  up 
straight.  His  ugliness  was  of  an  unfamiliar, 
barbaric  type  ;  but  there  was  nothing  degener- 
ate about  it,  notwithstanding  the  heavy  jaw  ; 
his  head,  indeed,  was  finely  shaped,  and  the 
deep-set  eyes  would  have  been  really  magnif- 
icent, but  for  their  sullen,  morose  expression. 
The  singular  breadth  between  them,  and  the 
black  line  of  the  brows  meeting  above,  gave 
to  the  face  a  look  of  strength  and  concentra- 
tion more  appropriate  to  a  bison  than  to  a 
child. 

"  So  you're  the  captain  of  the  Bad  Boys' 
Gang,  are  you?"  said  the  doctor.  "And 
what's  your  special  line,  if  one  may  ask? 


JACK  RAYMOND.  ^ 

Stealing  poor  men's  goods  and  frightening 
old  women  out  of  their  senses,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack,  looking  straight  at  him  : 
"  and  stinging  when  we  get  a  chance,  like 
that  hornet  on  your  beard." 

Dr.  Jenkins,  forgetting  the  season,  instinc- 
tively put  his  hand  up  to  his  face.  Immedi- 
ately he  received  a  violent  blow,  delivered 
with  admirable  precision ;  and  by  the  time  he 
realised  that  a  trick  had  been  played  on  him, 
Jack  was  racing  downhill  at  breakneck  speed. 

The  doctor  leaned  against  a  rock  and 
laughed  till  the  tears  ran  out  of  his  eyes.  It 
was  impossible  to  feel  angry,  the  thing  had 
been  so  neatly  done. 

"  What  a  little  devil ! "  he  gasped,  as  soon 
as  he  could  speak.  "  Oh,  what  an  outlandish 
little  devil  ! " 

"  And  that  boy,"  said  Timothy,  as  they 
walked  on  again  after  the  cart  had  been 
righted,  "  has  been  brought  up  in  a  godly 
house  and  has  had  the  advantages  of  Chris- 
tian precept  and  example  ever  since  he  was 
six  years  old.  But  'tis  no  use  ;  what's  bred 
in  the  bone  will  come  out  in  the  flesh." 


8  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  It  strikes  me,"  the  doctor  remarked, 
"  that  a  good  thrashing  would  have  more 
effect  on  that  urchin  than  Christian  precept 
and  example.  He  wants  the  nonsense  taken 
out  of  him." 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Timothy ;  "  there's  not 
a  boy  in  Porthcarrick  that  gets  the  cane  as 
often  as  Jack  Raymond ;  anyway,  since  the 
captain  died." 

"Who?" 

"Captain  John,  the  Vicar's  youngest 
brother.  He  was  drowned  three  years  ago 
last  October,  saving  life  in  rough  weather  off 
Longships  way  by  Land's  End.  The  Vicar 
has  no  children  of  his  own,  so  he  took  in  the 
orphans,  for  they  were  left  ill-provided,  and  he's 
done  his  duty  by  them,  as  a  Christian  man." 

"  There  are  more  children,  then  ?" 

"  There's  one  little  girl,  sir — eight  years 
old  ;  and  a  sweet  little  maid  she  is,  no  more 
like  this  imp  of  darkness  than  a  plaice  is  like 
a  pilchard.  She  takes  after  the  Raymonds." 

11  And  the  Vicar  is  strict  with  the  boy  ?  " 

Timothy  screwed  up  his  lips. 

"  Well,  sir,  there  be  some  gentlemen  on  the 


JACK   RAYMOND.  9 

school  board  do  say  he's  a  bit  too  strict;  'the 
flogging  parson,'  they  call  him,  because  he's 
all  for  more  caning  in  the  schools.  But  to 
my  mind  he's  right,  sir;  the  human  heart  is 
corrupt  and  desperately  wicked,  and  how  else 
be  'ee  goin'  to  instil  the  fear  of  God  into  a 
boy?" 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  have  got  instilled  into 
this  one." 

"  Ah,  that's  the  bad  blood  in  him.  Many 
a  tear  he's  cost  poor  Mrs.  Raymond.  You 
must  know,  she  comes  of  a  very  respectable 
family,  up  St.  Ives  way ;  good  church  people, 
all  of  them,  and  not  used  to  such  goings  on. 
She's  a  godly,  pious  woman,  and  good  to  the 
poor,  as  a  clergyman's  wife  should  be,  and 
she's  cared  for  those  two  children  as  if  they'd 
been  her  own,  though  they're  none  of  her  kin. 
Little  Molly's  the  apple  of  her  eye.  She's 
tried  her  hardest  to  coax  the  devil  out  of  the 
boy,  and  the  Vicar,  he's  tried  to  thrash  it  out, 
and  you  might  as  well  plant  potatoes  on  the 
Runnel  Stone.  He's  his  mother's  own 
brat." 

"  Who  was  she  ?  " 


io  JACK   RAYMOND. 

11  A  scarlet  woman,  sir ;  a  play  actress  from 
London  that  Captain  John  brought  home 
when  he  was  young  and  wild,  to  carry  shame 
into  a  decent  house.  Lord  knows  what  she'd 
been  before  he  married  her.  If  you'll  believe 
it,  sir,  she'd  smoke  tobacco  like  a  man,  and 
her  foot  was  never  inside  a  place  of  wor- 
ship. And  then  her  flaunting  skirts  and  her 
lewd  ways — it  was  enough  to  make  the  old 
folks  turn  in  their  graves !  She'd  trapes 
about  under  the  cliffs  in  dirty  weather  sing- 
ing to  herself,  with  her  hair  streaming  down 
her  back,  for  all  the  world  like  a  madwoman. 
Why,  I've  seen  her  myself  sitting  half-dressed 
with  her  bare  feet  in  a  rock-pool  and  a  crazy 
artist  fellow  from  London  painting  her  por- 
trait— great  maazed  antic  !  She  was  as  ugly 
as  sin,  too ;  you  can  tell  by  the  boy ;  but 
Captain  John  was  fair  mad  about  her.  How- 
ever, she  went  the  way  of  damnation  after 
the  little  maid  was  born  ;  '  took  an  engage- 
ment,' she  called  it,  and  ran  off  to  Paris 
to  her  play-acting ;  as  'tis  written  in  the 
Scriptures:  'the  dog  returneth  to  his  vomit, 
and  the  sow  to  her  wallowing  in  the  mire.1 


JACK   RAYMOND.  II 

And  there  she  took  the  cholera,  and  died 
like  an  unrepentant  heathen,  so  I've  heard 
tell.  Tis  plain  it  was  a  judgment.  And 
the  captain,  poor  silly  fool,  instead  of  being 
duly  grateful  to  Providence  for  a  good 
riddance  of  bad  rubbish,  he  took  on  as  if  his 
heart  was  broken  in  him,  and  never  held  up 
his  head  again " 

"  Is  this  Porthcarrick  ? "  the  doctor  inter- 
rupted as  a  sharp  turn  of  the  road  brought 
them  to  a  break  in  the  hills  and  a  fishing 
village  nestling  between  two  great  cliffs. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  that's  the  lighthouse  beyond 
Deadman's  cliff.  The  white  house  there  is 
Mr.  Hewitt's  school ;  a  lot  of  gentlefolk  send 
their  sons  there — the  Vicar's  trustee  for  it ; 
and  that  big  one  higher  up  is  Heath  Brow, 
where  the  Squire  lives." 

"  And  the  old  house  by  the  church,  all 
over  ivy?" 

"That's  the  Vicarage." 

The  next  morning,  when  Dr.  Jenkins  re- 
turned from  his  first  stroll  through  the  village, 
he  found  on  his  table  a  card  bearing  the  in- 


12  JACK   RAYMOND. 

scription  :  "Revr.  Jos.  Raymond,  The  Vicar- 
age, Porthcarrick,  Cornwall." 

"  The  Vicar  said  he'd  call  again,"  said  the 
landlady.  "  He  seemed  in  a  great  taking  ;  I 
suppose  it's  that  devil's  limb  Jack  again  ;  they 
do  say  he  scared  poor  old  Mrs.  Richards  fair 
to  death  on  the  cliff  road  yesterday;  smashed 
the  cart  and  lamed  the  pony  and " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  doctor,  "  it's  not 
quite  so  bad  as  that.  I  was  there  myself. 
Has  the  farmer  been  complaining  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  they  say  the  Vicar  had  a  long 
bill  to  pay  him  this  morning ;  he  threatened 
to  bring  an  action  for  assault  and  battery." 

"  Oh,  that's  absurd.  I'll  go  round  to  the 
Vicar  after  dinner  and  tell  him  the  truth  of 
the  story  myself." 

As  he  entered  the  Vicarage  garden  a  sound 
of  light  feet  running  came  from  behind  the 
fuchsia  hedge.  Before  he  had  time  to  draw 
back,  a  small  creature  in  a  holland  pinafore 
dashed  round  the  corner  and  came  in  a  head- 
long rush  against  his  legs,  then  started  away, 
tossing  back  a  tawny  mane. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  !     Did  I  hurt  you,  sir  ?  " 


JACK   RAYMOND.  13 

The  doctor  looked  down  in  surprise,  won- 
dering if  this  pretty  child  could  really  be  Jack 
Raymond's  sister. 

"Hurt  me?  What,  by  treading  on  my 
toes?  I  was  afraid  it  was  I  that  had  hurt 
you.  Are  you  Mr.  Raymond's  little  niece  ?  " 

"  I'm  Molly.     Did  you  want  to  see  uncle?" 

She  led  him  into  the  house ;  he,  meanwhile, 
unsuccessfully  trying  to  draw  her  into  conver- 
sation. He  was  fond  of  children  ;  and  Molly, 
clean  and  wholesome  throughout,  shy  yet  not 
awkward,  freckled  and  tanned  with  sun  and 
wind,  appeared  to  him  a  creature  altogether 
delightful.  Charming  as  she  was,  however, 
she  would  certainly  not  grow  up  beautiful ; 
for,  though  so  unlike  her  brother  in  colouring 
and  expression,  she  possessed,  in  a  modified 
form,  the  same  obstinate  mouth  and  heavy 
jaw  ;  but  her  eyes  bore  no  resemblance  to 
Jack's  ;  they  were  deliciously  limpid  and  blue. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Raymond  was  an  iron-grey 
man,  serious  and  cold,  with  eyes  as  lifeless  as 
his  grizzled  hair.  He  held  himself  erect  like 
a  soldier,  though  without  a  soldier's  ease. 
There  was  about  him  an  antiquated  stiffness, 


14  JACK   RAYMOND. 

yet  withal  a  certain  patient  dignity,  as  of  one 
mindful  that  he  was  made  in  the  image  of 
God.  His  sense  of  order  would  not  tolerate 
useless  growth  of  any  kind  ;  therefore  he  was 
clean-shaven,  showing  the  nakedness  of  the 
worst  thing  in  his  face — a  Chinese  insensitive- 
ness,  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth.  A  little 
more  curve  and  pointing  of  the  lines  might 
have  rendered  the  face  a  fine  one,  impressive 
if  not  sympathetic ;  but  as  it  was,  he  seemed  a 
diagram  of  virtue  drawn  in  monochrome. 

He  sent  Molly  away,  and  then  began  a 
laborious  apology  for  the  wickedness  of  Jack, 
the  "devil's  limb."  Seeing  how  much  he 
took  the  matter  to  heart,  the  visitor  cut  him 
short  good-humouredly,  giving  his  own  version 
of  the  story,  as  of  a  mere  schoolboy  prank, 
and  turned  the  conversation  to  other  subjects. 

Presently  tea  was  brought  in,  and  together 
with  it  came  Mrs.  Raymond,  a  stout,  submis- 
sive, motherly  woman,  older  than  her  husband, 
with  indefinite  eyebrows  plaintively  raised  in 
an  arch  of  chronic  faint  surprise.  Her  black 
gown  was  the  perfection  of  neatness,  and  not  a 
hair  of  her  head  was  out  of  place.  Molly,  in  a 


JACK   RAYMOND.  15 

clean  white  pinafore,  the  thick  curls  carefully 
brushed  and  tied  back  with  a  ribbon,  made  a 
gracious  little  picture,  clinging  shyly  to  her 
aunt.  An  air  of  peaceful  domesticity  seemed 
to  enter  with  the  woman  and  child.  The 
bread,  butter,  and  cake  were  too  good  not  to 
be  home  made ;  and  when,  after  tea,  Mrs. 
Raymond  sat  down  by  the  window  to  finish 
embroidering  a  frock  for  Molly,  the  visitor 
saw  that  she  was  no  less  excellent  a  needle- 
woman than  a  cook.  She  was  also  charitable, 
as  appeared  from  the  red  woollen  comforter 
which  Molly  was  learning  to  knit ;  the  little 
girl  had  evidently  been  taught  that  the  mak- 
ing of  warm  garments  for  the  poor  is  an 
important  duty.  It  occurred  to  him  that  this 
woman  of  plastic  virtues  must  sometimes  find 
it  a  little  fatiguing  to  stand  a  perpetual  buffer 
between  husband  and  nephew. 

"  Sarah,"  said  the  Vicar,  when  the  tea  had 
been  cleared  away,  "  I  have  been  telling  Dr. 
Jenkins  how  deeply  we  regret  what  happened 
on  the  cliff  road  yesterday.  He  is  so  kind  as 
to  take  the  matter  very  lightly,  and  not  to  de- 
mand any  more  formal  apology." 


16  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Mrs.  Raymond  lifted  her  mild  eyes  to  the 
visitor's  face. 

"  We  are  very  sorry  that  you  should  have 
had  any  annoyance.  But  we  have  done  our 
best,  indeed ;  and  it  is  most  kind  of  you  not 
to  want  the  boy  punished  .  .  ." 

"  He  will  be  punished  in  any  case,"  said  the 
Vicar  quietly.  "  The  entry  is  already  made 
in  the  conduct  book." 

"  Not  on  my  account,  I  hope,"  Dr.  Jenkins 
put  in.  "  I  regarded  the  whole  thing  really 
as  a  joke,  and  should  never  have  thought  of 
complaining-  if  you  had  not  happened  to  hear 
of  it." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  replied  the  Vicar ; 
"but  I  never  overlook  an  offence." 

"  Good  Heavens,  what  a  piled-up  account 
there  must  be  against  that  boy!  "  thought  the 
doctor.  He  turned  the  conversation  away,  as 
soon  as  he  could,  from  the  sore  subject  of 
Jack's  delinquencies.  On  other  topics  the 
Vicar  proved  a  very  agreeable  talker ;  practi- 
cal, clear-headed,  and  fairly  well  informed. 
He  took  a  great  interest  in  local  philanthropic 
and  pious  enterprises,  particularly  in  missions. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  17 

He  was  giving  the  visitor  an  account  of  his 
connection  with  the  Mission  to  Deep  Sea 
Fishermen,  when  the  house-door  was  violently 
slammed  and  Mrs.  Raymond  looked  up  in 
nervous  anticipation. 

"Jack  !  "  called  the  Vicar,  rising  and  open- 
ing the  door  of  the  room.  "  Come  in  here. 
Molly,  my  dear,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  little 
girl ;  "you  had  better  run  upstairs  and  play." 

"  Mind  you  change  your  pinafore,"  said 
Mrs.  Raymond,  as  the  child  went  out.  "And 

ask  Mary  Anne Oh,  Jack,  where  have 

you  been  to  get  into  that  state  ! " 

Jack  had  slouched  into  the  room  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  He  took  in  the  situa- 
tion at  a  glance,  and  stopped  short  beside  the 
door,  scowling  at  the  visitor.  Sullen,  grimy, 
and  unkempt,  his  obstinate  chin  stuck  out, 
his  jacket  torn  and  dirty,  and  the  wet  mud 
from  his  boots  soiling  the  clean  carpet,  he 
looked  as  ill-favoured  »and  ill-conditioned  a 
young  brute  as  any  family  could  be  cursed 
with. 

"Do  you  renjember  this  gentleman?" 
asked  the  Vicar,  with  ominous  composure. 


1 8  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  I'll  bet  he  remembers  me,  anyway,"  said 
Jack.  Heard  in  a  room,  his  voice  sounded 
curiously  full  and  resonant  for  his  age. 

"  I  certainly  do,"  said  the  visitor,  still 
cheerfully  trying  to  avert  the  gathering 
storm.  "  Come  here  and  shake  hands,  boy, 
to  show  there's  no  ill  feeling." 

Jack  looked  at  him  silently  from  under 
lowered  brows. 

"Go  up  and  shake  hands,"  said  the  Vicar, 
still  gently,  but  with  angry  eyes.  "Your 
aunt  and  I  have  apologised  for  you,  as  you 
have  not  done  it  for  yourself." 

Jack  approached  the  visitor  in  his  slouch- 
ing way,  and  held  out  a  grimy  left  hand, 
keeping  the  right  still  in  his  pocket. 

"Why  not  the  other  hand?"  asked  the 
doctor. 

"  Can't." 

"What  have  you  done  to  yourself  now?" 
asked  Mrs.  Raymond,  with  a  pathetic,  uncon- 
scious emphasis  on  the  last  word.  "Why, 
your  sleeve's  all  over  mud,  and  you've  torn 
that  new  jacket ! "  „ 

"Take   your   hand   out   of   your   pocket," 


JACK   RAYMOND.  19 

said  the  Vicar.     His  voice  was  growing  sharp 
with  suppressed  irritation. 

The  hand,  when  unrolled  from  a  dirty, 
blood-stained  handkerchief,  proved  to  be 
scratched  and  grazed. 

"How  did  you  do  that?" 

Jack  threw  a  sullen  glance  at  his  uncle. 

"Climbing  on  Deadman's  Cliff." 

"  Where  you  have  been  strictly  forbidden 
to  go?" 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  Jack,"  said  the  aunt  helplessly ;  "  how 
can  you  be  so  disobedient ! " 

The  Vicar  took  out  the  black  book  and 
made  another  entry. 

"  Go  to  your  room  and  wait  till  I  come," 
was  all  he  said. 

Jack  turned  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
and  left  the  room,  whistling.  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond followed,  glancing  nervously  at  her 
husband. 

"  It's  no  use  our  trying  to  hide  the  skeleton 
in  our  family  cupboard  away  from  you,"  said 
the  Vicar,  turning  to  his  visitor  with  a  sigh. 
"  It  has  been  forced  upon  your  notice,  against 


20  JACK   RAYMOND. 

our  will.  My  nephew's  bad  disposition  has 
been  a  heavy  cross  to  Mrs.  Raymond  and 
myself ;  the  heaviest  with  which  it  has 
pleased  Providence  to  afflict  us." 

"  He  may  grow  out  of  this  wilfulness  in 
time,"  the  doctor  ventured,  consolingly. 
"After  all,  many  very  good  men  have  been 
naughty  boys." 

"  Naughty,  yes  ;  but  unhappily  it  is  not 
mere  childish  naughtiness  that  we  have  to 
contend  with  in  my  nephew ;  it  is  an  inhe- 
rently evil  disposition." 

He  looked  kito  the  fire  for  a  little  while ; 
then  added  with  a  gesture  of  resignation  : 
"  If  Timothy  has  not  already  told  you  the 
wretched  story  you  are  sure  to  hear  it  soon 
from  some  of  the  village  gossips.  Jack 
inherits  from  his  mother  a  character  which 
seems  incapable  of  reform,  its  vices  are  so 
deeply  rooted.  Neither  persuasion  nor  firm- 
ness has  any  effect  upon  him  ;  after  years 
of  care  and  earnest  efforts  to  arouse  some 
glimmering  of  better  feelings,  he  grows 
steadily  worse  and  worse.  We  have  been 
greatly  blessed  in  that  Molly,  as  yet  at  least, 


JACK   RAYMOND.  ai 

shows  no  trace  of  vicious  tendencies ;  but  for 
the  boy  I  have  little  hope." 

As  soon  as  he  could,  Dr.  Jenkins  made  his 
escape  from  the  house.  He  was  wearied  of 
the  subject  of  Jack  and  his  sins.  "  Hang  it 
all!"  he  said  to  himself;  "if  that  confounded 
cub  is  to  be  rammed  down  my  throat 
wherever  I  go,  I  shall  have  to  set  up  a 
placard  on  my  door :  'It  is  requested  not 
to  talk  about  the  crimes  of  the  Vicar's 
nephew."1 

In  the  garden  was  a  shed  used  for  storing 
fire-wood.  Passing  beside  it  he  heard  a  noise 
overhead,  and  looked  up.  Jack,  serene  in 
the  consciousness  of  a  position  at  once 
dangerous  and  impregnable,  was  sitting 
astride  on  the  corner  of  the  sloping  roof, 
with  a  huge  chunk  of  bread  in  one  hand  and 
a  sour  green  cooking-apple,  probably  a  rem- 
nant of  yesterday's  loot,  in  the  other.  He 
was  devouring  the  two  in  alternate  bites. 

"  Hullo  ! "  said  the  doctor.  "  How  did  you 
get  there?  I  thought  you  were  sent  up- 
stairs." 

The    imp   glanced   at  him  laconically  and 


22  JACK   RAYMOND. 

took  another  bite  out  of  the  apple.  The 
deliberate  crunching  sound  set  the  doctor's 
teeth  on  edge. 

"You'll  have  a  stomach  ache  if  you  eat 
unripe  fruit  at  that  pace." 

"  I  haven't  time  to  talk,"  Jack  replied,  with 
his  mouth  full.  "  I've  got  to  go  indoors  and 
be  thrashed  in  a  minute,  and  I  want  to  finish 
my  tea  first." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  affect  your  appetite." 

Jack  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  began 
upon  another  apple.  Mrs.  Raymond  came 
running  down  the  path,  stout  and  panting, 
with  clasped  hands. 

"Jack!  Jack!  Where  are  you?  Go  in  at 
once,  you  wicked  boy !  Oh,  my  dear,  do 
make  haste  and  go  in ;  your  uncle  will  be  so 
angry ! " 

She  caught  sight  of  the  visitor  standing  in 
the  path,  and  stopped  short.  Jack  looked 
round,  grinning. 

"  Isn't  she  soft  ?  She  always  blubbers 
when  I  get  a  licking." 

"  You  don't,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"I?"    said    Jack,    with     a    contemptuous 


JACK   RAYMOND.  23 

stare.  "  I'm  not  an  old  woman.  Is  uncle 
going  upstairs  now,  Aunt  Sarah?  I'll  bet 
you  I'll  be  there  before  him." 

He  jumped  down  from  the  roof  and  took 
the  sill  of  the  bow  window  with  as  clean  a 
run  and  spring  as  if  he  had  been  training  for  a 
professional  acrobat.  From  there  he  swung 
himself  up  by  the  ivy  to  a  projecting  ledge 
running  round  the  house  between  the  two 
stories,  and  scrambled  in  at  an  upper  window 
like  a  cat. 

Mrs.  Raymond  turned  to  the  visitor  in 
despair. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  him  ?  "  she  said 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  boys  came  trooping  out  from  school. 
It  was  a  half-holiday  and  a  glorious  midsum- 
mer afternoon,  and  every  one,  or  almost  every 
one,  was  in  high  spirits.  Jim  Greaves,  the 
eldest  boy,  who  was  nearly  seventeen,  and  a 
person  of  consequence,  having  always  plenty 
of  pocket-money,  walked  arm  in  arm  with  his 
special  friend,  Robert  Polwheal,  "  the  lamb," 
so  called  for  his  habit  of  bullying  the  little 
ones.  The  two  boys  were  not  popular  in  the 
school  ;  but  as  Jim  was  richer  and  Rob 
stronger  than  most  of  the  others,  a  good 
many  things  were  forgiven  them,  or,  if  not 
forgiven,  submitted  to  in  silence.  The  dul- 
ness  of  life  at  Porthcarrick  had  induced  them 
to  join  Jack  Raymond's  gang  of  larrikins, 
which  enrolled  boys  of  various  characters, 
sizes,  and  social  ranks  ;  and,  though  both  were 
much  older  than  the  captain,  his  dominant 
will  kept  them  fairly  submissive  to  orders. 
Yet  neither  of  them  had  any  natural  gift  for 

24 


JACK   RAYMOND.  25 

marauding,  and  there  was  small  love  between 
them  and  Jack ;  they  still  remembered,  though 
they  pretended  to  forget,  how  last  year  he  had 
fought  them,  one  after  the  other,  for  ill-treat- 
ing a  puppy.  Though  physically  somewhat 
overmatched,  he  had  succeeded,  by  dint  of 
sheer  pugnacity,  in  giving  both  of  them  as 
much  pommelling  as  they  cared  to  have  ;  and 
had  then  gone  cheerfully  home  with  a  swollen 
nose  and  one  eye  bunged  up,  to  be,  as  usual, 
thrashed  by  his  uncle  for  fighting. 

Since  then  they  had  treated  him  with  the 
respect  due  to  so  warlike  a  captain  ;  and  had 
indulged  their  secret  ill-will  only  by  making, 
in  his  presence,  remarks  which  they  knew 
would  have  infuriated  him  had  the  double 
meanings  but  been  intelligible  to  his  ignor- 
ance. When  his  back  was  turned  the  gang 
would  shriek  with  laughter  at  the  incongruity 
of  a  leader  in  wickedness  too  "green"  to 
understand  Rob  Polwheal's  jokes.  It  was 
perhaps  as  much  the  general  enjoyment  of  a 
comic  situation  as  the  fear  of  his  big  fists 
which  saved  him  from  enlightenment. 

He,  for  his  part,  had  nearly  forgotten  the 


26  JACK   RAYMOND. 

incident  of  the  puppy,  and  certainly  bore  no 
ill-will  on  account  of  it.  Thrashings  were 
matters  of  common  occurrence ;  and,  for  the 
rest,  he  was  still  in  the  barbaric  stage  of  cub- 
hood,  and  had  fought  as  much  for  pure 
joy  in  fighting  as  for  any  sentimental  reason. 
Nevertheless,  he  instinctively  disliked  both 
Greaves  and  Polwheal,  just  as  he  disliked 
Charlie  Thompson,  the  fat,  short-winded  boy 
whose  hands  always  disgusted  him — he  could 
not  have  told  why.  Jack,  like  many  primitive 
creatures,  had  a  curious  physical  shrinking 
from  anything  not  quite  healthy.  Singularly 
enough,  this  subtle  instinct  of  repulsion  had 
never  yet  warned  him  against  the  Vicar ; 
there  his  feeling  was  quite  simple  and  ele- 
mentary ;  he  hated  his  uncle,  just  as  he  liked 
animals,  just  as  he  despised  Aunt  Sarah. 

Mr.  Hewitt,  the  schoolmaster,  walked  down 
the  lane  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground  ;  he  did 
not  share  the  general  high  spirits.  The  re- 
sponsibilities of  his  profession  weighed  heav- 
ily upon  him,  for  he  was  a  conscientious 
person,  and  nature  had  not  intended  him  for 
a  schoolmaster. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  27 

"Together  again,"  he  muttered,  looking 
after  the  two  big  boys  as  they  walked  off  arm 
in  arm. 

"They're  always  huggermuggering  "over 
something,"  said  the  curate,  coming  up  be- 
hind him.  Mr.  Hewitt  turned  round  quickly, 
with  a  look  of  relief ;  he  and  the  curate  were 
old  friends. 

"  I'm  awfully  worried  about  this  business, 
Black,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  think  the  Vicar 
suspects  anything?" 

"  I'm  certain  he  doesn't;  he'd  have  turned 
the  place  inside  out.  You  know  how  severe  he 
is  about  anything  immoral.  Why,  the  other 
day,  with  Roscoe's  girl — I  thought  he  would 
have  frightened  her  into  a  fit.  It's  all  very 
well,  Hewitt,  but  he  goes  too  far.  The  girl's 
very  young  and  ignorant,  and  it  was  not  fair 
to  press  her  so." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you.  As  vicar  of  the 
parish  he  ought  to  know  the  seducer's  name, 
for  the  protection  of  other  girls.  It  was 
sheer  obstinacy  that  made  her  refuse  to  tell." 

"  Or  sheer  terror.  Anyhow,  about  the 
boys " 


28  JACK   RAYMOND. 

The  schoolmaster  drew  back. 

"For  Heaven's  sake!"  he  cried;  "you 
don't  suspect  one  of  my  boys  about  the 
Roscoe  girl  ?  " 

"No,  no,  of  course  not!  It's  some  young 
fisherman.  That  is  ...  They  both 
paused  a  moment. 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  the  curate  went 
on,  with  a  troubled  face  ;  "  but  Greaves  and 
Polwheal  .  .  .  Anyway,  it's  no  use  imagining 
horrors  like  that  till  we  have  cause.  And 
Heaven  knows  the  other  thing's  black  enough." 

"  It  is  indeed  ;  and  the  worst  is  that  I'm 
afraid  the  Vicar's  own  nephew  is  at  the 
bottom  of  it  all." 

"Hewitt,  are  you  sure  of  that?  Jack  is 
without  exception  the  most  troublesome  boy 
I  ever  came  across,  but  he  doesn't  look  to 
me  'that  sort,  somehow.  Now  if  you'd  said 
Thompson " 

"  Oh,  as  for  Thompson,  I  have  no  doubt  at 
all.  But  I'm  afraid  Jack  must  be  a  bad  lot 
too ;  he's  so  utterly  callous.  And  if  so,  his 
influence  over  all  the  other  boys  makes  him 
fearfully  dangerous.  You  know,  in  every 


JACK    RAYMOND.  29 

thing,  it's  he  that  leads  them  away.  I  scarcely 
know  how  to  go  and  tell  Mr.  Raymond  what 
I  suspect,  after  all  the  tro.uble  he's  taken 
about  the  school.  I'm  convinced  of  one  thing : 
if  we  have  a  scandal  in  this  place,  and  boys 
expelled,  and  the  newspapers  reporters  down, 
and  his  nephew's  in  it, — it  '11  break  the  Vicar's 
heart.  Who's  that — Greggs  ?  " 

A  slim,  indefinite-looking  boy,  with  timid 
eyes,  too  prominent  and  a  little  too  near 
together,  got  up  from  behind  a  tussock  of 
gorse,  and  pulled  at  his  cap  with  a  shame- 
faced grin.  He  was  the  village  blacksmith's 
son,  and  a  personal  satellite  of  Jack  Raymond, 
without  whose  nefarious  influence  he  would 
probably  never  have  had  the  courage  to  rob 
any  man's  orchard.  A  born  huckster,  he  made 
a  good  deal  of  pocket-money  by  accompany- 
ing Mr.  Hewitt's  scholars  on  various  mar- 
auding expeditions  under  Jack's  leadership, 
and  selling  them  birds,  ferrets,  and  fishing- 
tackle  by  the  way. 

"  Could  you  go  a  message  for  me  this 
afternoon  ?"  asked  the  curate. 

"  If  Master  Jack  will  let  me,  sir ;  he  told 


30  JACK   RAYMOND. 

me  to  wait   for   him  here :  he  wants   to   go 
fishing." 

"  You  see,"  sighed  Mr.  Hewitt,  as  he 
walked  on  with  his  friend.  "Jack  told  him 
to  wait ;  and  he'll  wait  the  whole  afternoon 
sooner  than  disobey.  A  boy  like  that  is 
putty  in  Jack's  hands." 

Indeed,  Billy  Greggs  had  waited  for  a  long 
time  when  his  commander  appeared,  moody 
and  wrathful-eyed,  and  dismissed  him  with 
a  curt :  "  Bill,  it's  no  go." 

"  Why,  Jack,  aren't  you  coming?" 
"  Can't ;  the  beastly  sneak  is  keeping  me 
in  to  do  a  lot  of  piggish  Latin — just  because 
the  weather's  fine." 

"  What,  old  Hewitt  ?    Why " 

"  No,  uncle,  of  course  ;  it's  just  his  spite." 
"  Have    you   been    putting    his   back    up 
again  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  everlasting  story — want  of  re- 
spect to  the  Bishop.  I  wish  that  old  boy 
would  come  back  out  of  his  grave  for  five 
minutes — wouldn't  I  just  punch  his  head  !" 

The  Bishop,  an  eminent  and  learned  great- 
uncle  of  the  Raymonds,  and  the  only  member 


JACK    RAYMOND.  31 

of  the  family  who  had  ever  attained  to  any 
special  distinction,  was  at  the  vicarage  a  kind 
of  household  god  on  a  small  scale.  Every 
object  connected  v/ith  his  memory  was 
treated  with  solemn  reverence  ;  and  Jack's 
grudge  against  him  was,  perhaps,  a  natural 
result  of  the  many  hundreds  of  "lines"  that 
he  had  written  out,  on  various  half-holidays, 
as  penance  for  transgressing  against  the  family 
taboo. 

"  You  know  that  knife  with  the  green 
handle  that  uncle  makes  such  a  fuss  over  be- 
cause the  Duke  of  something  or  other  gave 
it  to  the  Bishop  ?  I  just  took  it  to  mend  my 
tackle  this  afternoon,  and,  of  course,  he  came 
in  and  caught  me ;  and  wasn't  he  wild !  I 
slipped  out  at  the  back  door  to  let  you  know. 
I'll  get  done  as  quick  as  I  can.  Good- 
bye/' 

"Jack!"  Billy  called  after  the  retreating 
figure;  "meet  me  behind  our  cowshed  when 
you're  done  ;  we'll  have  larks." 

Jack  stopped  and  turned  back.  "  Why, 
what's  up  ?  " 

"  Whitefoot's  calving,  and  something's  gone 


32  JACK   RAYMOND. 

wrong.  Father's  sent  for  the  vet  to  put  her 
right.  He  won't  let  me  in ;  but  there's  a 
chink  at  the  back  by  the  ash-heap,  and  we 
can " 

Jack  flared  up  suddenly. 

"  Bill  Greggs,  if  I  catch  you  hanging  about 
and  peeping  at  things  that  aren't  your  busi- 
ness, the  vet  '11  have  you  to  put  right  next, 
you  dirty  little  cad." 

Billy  subsided,  meekly  enough,  but  with  a 
small  internal  chuckle,  remembering  what 
things  could  safely  be  said  and  done  under 
this  strict  commander's  very  nose. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  mildly  ;  *'  you  needn't 
snap  my  head  off.  I  say,  do  you  want  a 
grey-bird  ?  " 

"  What,  a  tame  one  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  can  tame  it  if  you  like.  I 
caught  one  yesterday  in  the  glen — a  beauty. 
You  can  have  it  for  ninepence." 

"And  where  am  I  going  to  get  the  nine- 
pence  ?" 

"  Why,  you  had  half-a-crown  the  other 
day." 

Jack  shrugged  his  shoulders  ;  money  never 


JACK   RAYMOND.  33 

would  stop  in  his  pockets  for  any  length  of 
time. 

"  I've  only  got  twopence  halfpenny  now." 

"  All  right !  then  I  shall  let  Greaves  have 
the  bird;  he  asked  me  for  it.  I'll  blind  it 
to-night." 

Jack's  level  brows  contracted  into  a  frown. 

"Let  the  thing  alone,  can't  you!"  he  said 
angrily.  "  What  d'you  want  to  blind  it  for  ? 
It  '11  sing  right  enough  without  that." 

At  this  second  display  of  mawkishness  in 
his  captain  Billy  permitted  himself  a  little 
snigger. 

"  Why,  Jack,  I  didn't  think  you  were  so 
soft !  Of  course  I'm  going  to  blind  it ;  it's 
the  proper  way.  There's  nothing  to  make 
all  that  fuss  about ;  you  just  stick  a  needle 
into  a  cork  and  make  it  red-hot  and " 

"  Let  me  see  the  bird  before  you  do  it," 
Jack  interrupted  imperiously.  "  I'll  get  done 
by  tea-time." 

He  walked  away,  his  forehead  still  con- 
tracted. Perhaps  the  dash  of  Hungarian 
blood  inherited  from  his  mother  was  respon- 
sible for  the  overweening  personal  pride 


34  JACK   RAYMOND. 

which  made  any  suspicion  of  ridicule  so  in- 
tolerably galling  to  him.  He  rated  himself 
fiercely  for  caring  who  peeped  and  sniggered 
at  "beastly"  sights,  or  put  out  a  wild  bird's 
eyes.  What  was  it  all  to  him  that  he  should 
mind  so  much  ?  Nobody  else  ever  minded 
those  things. 

Nevertheless,  the  grey-bird  and  the  hot 
needle  kept  getting  in  the  way  of  the  Latin 
verses  the  whole  afternoon,  and  Jack's 
temper  grew  worse  and  worse.  His  educa- 
tion and  surroundings,  the  steady  hardening 
process  through  which  he  had  been  put,  had 
come  near  to  grinding  out  of  him  whatever 
natural  softness  he  might  originally  have 
possessed ;  and,  being  inordinately  proud  of 
his  reputation  as  the  most  callous  reprobate 
of  the  district,  he  was  afflicted  with  a  kind  of 
shame  every  time  any  thing  touched  upon  one 
of  those  little  sensitive  spots,  of  whose  exist- 
ence no  one  knew  but  himself.  By  the  time 
the  Latin  was  finished  he  was  boiling  over 
with  impatience  to  commit  some  reckless 
enormity  which  should  at  once  "pay  uncle 
out"  for  the  spoiled  half-holiday  and  restore 


JACK   RAYMOND.  35 

himself  to  his  proper  place  in  his  own  estima- 
tion and  in  that  of  Billy  Greggs.  He  wiped 
his  inky  fingers  on  his  aunt's  clean  table- 
cover,  thrust  them  into  his  black  thatch  of 
hair,  and  racked  his  brains  for  a  plan. 

•  •  •  •  • 

In  the  next  room  the  Vicar  was  at  work 
upon  his  sermon  for  Sunday  morning.  He 
wrote  more  fluently  than  was  usual  with  him, 
and  the  blunt  corners  of  his  mouth  were 
compressed  into  their  most  characteristic 
line.  The  sermon  was  to  be  a  thunderbolt 
in  Porthcarrick,  a  stern  denunciation  of 
Farmer  Roscoe's  daughter  and  her  unknown 
seducer.  The  girl  herself  and  her  proud, 
helpless  old  father  would  probably  be  pres- 
ent, for  the  Roscoes  were  regular  attendants 
at  church ;  but  Mr.  Raymond  was  not  sensi- 
tive. He  had  no  sympathy  with  what  he 
called  "  her  crime " ;  in  his  youth  he  had 
known  something  of  temptation,  but  not  of 
such  temptation  as  Maggie  Roscoe  would 
have  understood. 

•  •  •  •  • 

"Hi!  Bill!" 


36  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Billy  Greggs  was  poking  up  a  fat  snail  with 
a  stick  ;  he  turned  round  at  the  shout  and 
saw  Jack  Raymond  racing  down  the  heather 
slope  towards  him. 

"  Done  your  Latin  ?" 

Jack  threw  himself  full  length  on  the 
heather. 

"  Yes,  at  last." 

Billy  returned  to  the  snail.  For  some 
little  time  Jack  lay  royally  at  ease,  kicking 
his  heels  in  the  air  like  the  uncouth  young 
Philistine  he  was  :  then  he  sat  up,  pulled  a 
knife  out  of  his  pocket,  opened  it  with  a 
broken  and  dirty  finger  nail  and  began  whit- 
tling a  stick  to  a  cheerful  accompaniment  of 
"  Tommy,  make  room  for  your  un-c/e  .  .  ." 

"  Hullo!"  Billy  said,  after  watching  him  a 
moment.  "Where  did  that  knife  come  from  ?  " 

"  What's  that  to  you  ?  " 

"  Hold  hard  ;  let's  have  a  look." 

Jack  held  out  the  knife  in  a  great  brown 
fist.  It  was  an  expensive-looking  tool,  with  a 
malachite  handle  and  initials  engraved  on  a 
gold  plate. 

"Why,  it's  .   .   .   the  Bishop's!    Jack!" 


JACK   RAYMOND.  37 

Jack  returned  the  knife  to  his  pocket  with 
a  grin. 

"  How  did  you  get  hold  of  it  ?" 

"  P'raps  uncle  gave  it  me  for  being  such  a 
good  boy." 

"Rats!" 

"  P'raps  I  took  it." 

Billy  whistled  softly.  "  My  eye,  won't  you 
just  catch  it !  " 

"  Rather  ! "  said  Jack  laconically,  kicking 
the  heather  roots.  Then,  after  a  pause  :  "  I 
say,  Bill ! " 

"  Well  ? " 

"Will  you  swop?" 

"Swop  what?" 

"  Why,  that  bird— for  the  knife." 

Billy  sat  bolt  upright  and  stared,  open- 
mouthed.  The  "  grey-bird,"  a  common  mavis 
thrush,  might  be  worth,  at  the  most,  a 
shilling  ;  the  knife  would  be  worth,  to  the  boy 
found  guilty  of  stealing  it  ... 

"Why,  Jack,  he'll  lick  you  into  the  middle 
of  next  week  !  " 

Jack  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I'm  not  a 
girl,  to  mind  a  bit  of  a  hiding,  am  I  ?" 


38  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"I  say!"  Billy  turned  over  on  his  elbows 
and  looked  at  him  with  interest.  "  You  get 
thrashed  a  lot,  don't  you  ?  They  do  say 
your  uncle's  a  reg'lar  old  beast  for  caning." 

"  'Twon't  be  caning  any  more,  so  he  says. 
He  told  me,  the  last  licking  I  had,  he'd  take 
the  horsewhip  next  time,  and  see  if  that  'd  do 
me  any  good." 

"What  had  you  been  doing?" 

Jack  was  more  and  more  laconic.  "  'For- 
get. Time  before  last  it  was  for  stealing 
pears  out  of  the  garret  and  shying  them  off 
the  roof  at  the  squire's  old  maid  sister  when 
she  came  to  call.  Just  smashed  her  nice 
new  bonnet." 

"  The  pears  did  ?  " 

"Only  the  bad  ones;  I  ate  the  others,  half 
before  the  licking  and  half  after,  to  take  the 
taste  out  of  my  mouth." 

"  You're  a  cool  hand  ! " 

"  You  don't  suppose  I  care,"  said  Jack, 
with  lofty  scorn. 

Billy  reflected.  A  boy  who  could  stand 
unlimited  "licking"  without  turning  a  hair 
was  a  creature  to  be  approached  with  due 


JACK   RAYMOND.  39 

respect,  however  ludicrous  might  be  his  pre- 
posterous innocence  and  his  occasional  fits  of 
"  softness." 

"  Do  you  really  want  to  swop?  " 

"  'Course  I  do.     Where's  the  bird  ?" 

"  At  home.     But — look  here " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Are  you  sure  you  won't  .   .   ." 
"Won't  what?" 

"Why,  get  me  into  hot  water?" 
Jack's  big  fist  took  him  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck   and  jerked   him  back  on  the  heather. 
"  Now,  then,  none  of  your  cheek  !  " 

"  No,  I  mean   ...    if  your  uncle " 

"Bill  Greggs,  if  I  swop,  I  swop.  You  take 
the  knife,  and  I  take  the  grey-bird  and  the 
hiding.  Is  that  plain?  Then  stow  your  rot 
and  clear  out  of  there  and  fetch  the  bird." 
"  Oh,  well,  if  you  don't  care,  I  don't." 
He  ran  back  to  the  blacksmith's  cottage. 
Jack  lay  still,  kicking  his  heels  lazily,  and 
meditating  on  his  bargain.  He  was  not 
really  quite  so  indifferent  to  consequences  as 
he  chose  to  appear.  Now  that  there  was  no 
one  to  see,  his  forehead  contracted  again ;  at 


40  JACK   RAYMOND. 

the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  was  afraid.  But 
his  reputation  as  a  "devil's  limb"  had  to  be 
kept  up;  and  moreover,  thrashings,  as  he 
reflected,  are  among  the  inevitable  accidents 
of  life,  like  "the  act  of  God  "  that  the  railway 
companies  mention  in  their  consignment  bills. 
You  can't  expect  to  get  through  boyhood 
without  them  ;  not,  at  least,  if  you  happen  to 
be  an  orphan  of  evil  disposition,  with  a 
double  dose  of  original  sin  and  a  pernicious 
resemblance  to  a  mother  who  is  both  dead 
and  damned;  so  it  makas  little  difference  just 
when  they  come.  And  then,  to  have  one's 
eyes  burnt  out  and  be  set  to  sing  for  all  one's 
life  in  a  little  wooden  cage.  .  .  And  after  all, 
it  would  be  a  joke  to  see  uncle  downright 
furious.  The  theft  of  the  Bishop's  knife 
would  probably  go  down  in  the  "  conduct 
book  "with  a  black  cross  against  it;  uncle's 
memory  was  evidently  short.  Jack,  for  his 
part,  needed  no  such  artificial  aids ;  he  had 
many  grievances  against  his  uncle,  and  he 
remembered  them  every  one. 

Whatever  else  the  Vicar  had  accomplished, 
he  had  at  least  taught  this  turbulent,  difficult 


JACK    RAYMOND.  41 

nature  some  self-control.  In  the  Captain's 
life-time  Jack  had  been  a  creature  of  im- 
pulses ;  had  bitten  and  scratched  when  he  was 
angry  and  struggled  furiously  when  he  was 
hurt.  Now  he  was  chronically  angry  and  well 
accustomed  to  being  hurt ;  and  had  learned  to 
set  his  teeth  and  wait  for  his  opportunity.  It 
generally  came,  sooner  or  later ;  and  he  did 
not  often  fail  to  render  the  offending  "grown- 
ups" as  uncomfortable  as  they  had  made 
him. 

Billy  ran  back  with  the  wretched  mavis 
panting  and  fluttering  in  a  cage  of  firewood 
hardly  bigger  than  itself.  So  Jack  walked 
home  with  the  cage  under  his  arm,  and,  slip- 
ping into  the  house  unobserved,  hid  the  bird 
in  his  bedroom. 

After  supper  he  said  good-night,  and  car- 
ried his  books  upstairs,  telling  the  Vicar  that 
he  had  lessons  to  prepare  for  Monday's 
school.  His  room  was  small  and  low,  but  he 
liked  it  better  than  any  other  in  the  house, 
because  it  had  windows  facing  east  and  west, 
so  that  he  could  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set. 
When  he  had  locked  his  door  he  took  the 


42  JACK   RAYMOND. 

cage  from  its  hiding-place  and  set  it  on  the 
western  window-sill. 

"  All  right,  you  little  fool ! "  he  grumbled 
to  the  terrified  bird  as  it  shrank  up  against 
the  bars.  "  Keep  your  hair  on !  It's  me 
he'll  pitch  into,  not  you." 

He  put  into  the  cage  a  bit  of  watercress 
which  he  had  slipped  inside  his  jacket  at  tea- 
time.  But  the  mavis  would  only  flutter  desper- 
ately and  beat  its  wings  against  the  bars.  Jack 
sat  down  on  the  sill  beside  it,  turning  his  back 
to  the  sunset,  and  considered  what  to  do  next. 

His  first  idea  had  been  to  keep  the  bird  and 
tame  it.  Certainly  a  thrush  would  be  a  sec- 
ond-rate kind  of  pet ;  he  would  have  much 
preferred,  for  instance,  a  starling,  which  could 
be  taught  to  swear,  and  to  blaspheme  against 
bishops  and  against  green-handled  knives  and 
missions  to  deep  sea  fishermen.  But  a 
thrush  would  be  better  than  nothing ;  and  if 
he  was  going  to  get  into  trouble  for  its  sake, 
it  was  only  fair  that  he  should  have  some  fun 
out  of  the  transaction.  On  the  other  hand, 
wild  creatures  do  not  always  take  kindly  to 
captivity  ;  and  for  that  matter,  uncle  would  be 


JACK   RAYMOND.  43 

angry  enough  to  kill  the  bird  for  sheer  spite  if 
ever  he  should  happen  to  find  out.  Had  he 
not  drowned  Molly's  pet  kitten  last  winter, 
to  punish  her  for  getting  her  frock  dirty? 
Jack's  eyes  darkened  at  the  memory ;  he 
hated  the  Vicar  with  the  silent,  poisonous 
hatred  that  remembers  and  bides  its  time  ; 
and  in  his  long  and  heavy  score  against  his 
enemy  this  was  a  big  item.  Until  lately  his 
attitude  towards  Molly  had  been  one  of 
Olympian  indifference ;  what  had  he  to  do 
with  a  mere  girl,  who  was  afraid  of  the  dark 
and  couldn't  so  much  as  throw  a  stone 
straight  ?  But  the  day  when  he  had  come 
home  from  school  and  found  her  in  the  tool- 
house,  blind  and  sick  with  crying  because 
Tiddles  was  dead, — ("  and  oh,  Tiddles  did 
squeak  so!") — had  been  the  beginning  of  a 
new  sense  in  him,  that  it  was  somehow  his 
business  to  protect  his  sister. 

No,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  let  the 
bird  go.  The  fate  of  Tiddles  was  a  warning ; 
it  does  not  do  to  get  fond  of  creatures  that 
you  are  not  strong  enough  to  defend.  Once 
free  in  Trevanna  glen,  the  mavis  must  fight 


44  JACK   RAYMOND. 

its  own  battles.  "If  you  get  caught  again, 
you  little  duffer,"  he  remarked,  rising  and 
opening  the  window  ;  "  I  shan't  help  you  out; 
once  is  enough." 

Trevannaglen  lay  soft  and  dim  in  a  golden 
sunset  haze.  The  sky  was  too  clear  for  flam- 
ing colour ;  only  a  few  high  cloudlets  trailed 
their  faint  rose  bands  across  the  west.  From 
the  beach  came  a  low  sound  of  ripples  on  the 
shingle  ;  then  the  wailing  cry  of  a  sea-gull. 

As  Jack  opened  the  cage  door  the  mavis 
fluttered,  panic-stricken,  *  and  shrank  away. 
He  drew  back  a  little,  and  the  bird  passed  by 
him  like  a  lightning  flash.  He  heard  a  sud- 
den cry,  a  whirring  of  swift  wings  ;  and  leaned 
upon  the  sill,  following  with  his  eyes  amoving 
black  spot,  small  and  smaller,  that  darted 
straight  towards  the  glen. 

He  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  on  his 
bed,  holding  on  to  the  foot-rail.  He  seemed 
to  have  gone  all  shaky  inside,  and  there  was 
a  tightening  in  his  throat.  When  he  shut  his 
eyes  the  tree-tops  came  back,  and  the  yellow 
haze,  and  the  spread  wings  of  a  living  soul 
that  had  been  caged  and  now  was  free. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  45 

He  opened  his  eyes  at  last  and  looked 
around  him,  solemnly  afraid.  The  room 
startled  him  with  its  familiar  aspect ;  it  was 
all  as  it  had  been,  and  he  alone  was  changed. 
On  the  table  lay  his  lesson  books  ;  the  empty 
cage  stood  on  the  window-sill,  the  watercress 
dangling  from  its  bars.  He  must  smash  up 
the  cage,  by  the  way,  or  uncle  would  ask  .  .  . 

Ah,  what  did  uncle  matter  now  ? 

He  went  back  to  the  window  and  looked 
out,  his  shoulder  on  the  lintel,  his  head 
against  his  arm.  There  he  watched  while  the 
sunset  faded.  All  the  broad  spaces  between 
earth  and  sky  were  full  of  violet  shadows ;  in 
the  glen  the  tree-tops  swayed  a  little,  and 
grew  still ;  the  sea-birds  called,  and  called 
again,  and  settled  in  the  hollows,  and  all 
things  fell  asleep. 

Then  stars  came  out ;  one,  and  another, 
and  a  thousand,  shining  above  shadowy  trees 
and  ghostly  moorland  half  asleep,  with  clear 
eyes,  full  of  wonder ;  as  if  they  too  had  only 
now  begun  to  understand,  and,  looking  down 
upon  the  world's  familiar  face,  had  seen  that 
it  was  good. 


CHAPTER  III. 

As  far  back  as  Jack's  earliest  memories 
went,  he  had  always  liked  animals  and  plants 
and  rough  grey  rocks  and  yellow  foam. 

They  had,  indeed,  been  all  there  was  to 
like.  Human  beings,  especially  grown-up 
ones,  had  hitherto  played  in  his  conception  of 
life  a  singularly  small  and  contemptible  part. 
They  were  inevitable,  of  course,  and  some- 
times useful ;  but  neither  interesting  nor 
pleasant,  and  generally  much  in  the  way. 
Within  the  last  three  years  a  new  element 
had  been  creeping  into  his  relation  with  the 
adults  of  his  world ;  he  had  begun  to  see  in 
them  natural,  as  it  were,  hereditary  enemies. 
Anything  brutal  or  stupid,  any  petty  mean- 
ness or  fidgetty  interference  on  their  part, 
seemed  to  him  a  matter  of  course,  coming 
from  creatures  by  nature  illogical,  spiteful, 
and  incompetent ;  and,  his  standpoint  having 

once  become  fixed,  many  wise  and  necessary 

46 


JACK  RAYMOND.  47 

restrictions  were  lumped  together  with  the 
others  in  careless  contempt.  He  never 
troubled  himself  about  the  reasons  of  a  pro- 
hibition ;  if  a  thing  was  forbidden,  it  was 
presumably  just  because  there  was  no  sensible 
ground  of  objection  to  it. 

Of  men  and  women  in  any  other  capacity 
than  that  of  despised  authority  he  had  little 
knowledge.  After  the  loss  of  the  black- 
browed  mother  whom  he  could  dimly  remem- 
ber, he  and  Molly  had  spent  four  years  in 
St.  Ives  under  the  care  of  their  grandmother 
and  a  crotchetty  maiden  aunt.  These  two 
ladies  had  regarded  the  children  as  visitations 
of  Providence,  whom,  for  their  sins,  they 
must  at  regular  intervals  feed  and  wash, 
especially  wash ;  no  boy  was  ever  more 
heroically  scrubbed  than  Jack.  But  cold 
water  and  rough  towels,  excellent  as  they 
were,  had  not  satisfied  all  the  soul's  needs  of 
the  growing  boy  ;  and  as  quite  a  small  child 
he  had  sat  up  in  his  bed  in  the  dark  to 
address,  to  the  big  anthropomorphic  Thing 
which  he  had  been  taught  to  worship,  a  bitter 
reproach:  "It's  not  fair.  What  did  You 


48  JACK   RAYMOND. 

make  me  for,  if  You  weren't  going  to  let  any- 
body want  me  ?  " 

The  sailor  father  had  wanted  him,  at  any 
rate  ;  it  had  been  good  to  know  that  there  was 
one  person  in  the  world  who  did  not  think 
it  a  disgrace  for  a  boy  to  be  dark  and  ugly 
and  to  have  black  eyes  like  his  mother's,  even 
though  that  person  was  nearly  always  at  sea. 
But  then  had  come  a  night  of  rough  weather 
and  distress  signals  all  along  the  coast  ;  and 
the  next  morning  Aunt  Sarah  had  driven 
over  with  a  white  face  and  a  telegram.  Since 
then  the  orphans  had  lived  at  the  Vicarage  in 
Porthcarrick. 

Uncle  Josiah  and  Aunt  Sarah  had  shown 
to  the  passionate  boy  much  earnest  care  for 
his  body's  welfare  and  his  soul's  health,  but 
very  little  personal  friendliness  or  affection  ; 
and  that  little,  when  it  came  from  the  man, 
he  resented  as  impertinence,  when  from 
the  woman,  despised  as  weakness.  People 
should  play  fair,  and  not  try  to  catch  you 
with  shams  that  you  didn't  expect.  Grown- 
ups had  two  recognised  engines  of  warfare, 
and  should  stick  to  them.  One  was  moralis- 


JACK   RAYMOND.  49 

ing,  or  "jaw";  the  other,  sheer  coercion. 
This  latter,  though  disagreeable,  seemed  to 
him  the  more  logical  weapon.  It  would  have 
saved  trouble  to  begin  with  the  thing,  once 
they  were  going  to  end  with  it.  Indeed,  the 
Vicar  would  have  been  surprised  could  he 
have  learned  how  much  more  keenly  the  boy 
resented  his  sermons  than  his  punishments. 
Innumerable  thrashings  had  instilled  into 
Jack  a  certain  respect  for  a  person  who  can 
hit  hard  ;  and  had  his  relations  with  his  uncle 
begun  and  ended  with  the  cane,  there  would 
have  been  on  his  part  far  less  bitterness  ;  but 
the  moralising  filled  him  with  scorn,  and  the 
occasional  attempts  at  friendliness  with  fierce 
disgust. 

Aunt  Sarah  he  simply  despised.  She,  poor 
woman,  had  certainly  never  been  guilty  of 
any  brutality  towards  him ;  it  is  doubtful 
whether  she  had  uttered  a  harsh  word  to  any 
one  in  all  her  ineffectual,  well-meaning  days. 
Her  ambitions  went  no  further  than  to  see 
around  her  smiling  faces  of  contented  serv- 
ants and  children,  looking  up  in  happy  sub- 
mission to  their  and  her  king ;  and  her  one 


50  JACK   RAYMOND. 

grief,  besides  that  of  childlessness,  was  that 
the  faces,  though  mostly  submissive  enough, 
were  not  always  happy.  Jack,  in  a  chronic 
state  of  disobedience  and  revolt,  was  to  her 
an  utterly  unsolvable  problem.  She  was 
always  kind  to  him, — it  was  not  in  her  to  be 
otherwise  to  any  living  thing, — but  she  looked 
upon  him  with  a  sort  of  dread,  and  with  a 
feeling  which,  in  a  more  definite  nature, 
would  have  been  dislike  ;  he  was  so  incon- 
venient. Her  little  careful  plans  to  make 
things  "go  smoothly"  were  always  being 
disturbed  and  thrown  out  by  this  one  impos- 
sible factor. 

If  it  had  crossed  her  mind  that  the  boy  was 
lonely  and  miserable  she  would  have  been 
sincerely  horrified ;  merely  to  read  in  the 
parish  magazine  of  an  ill-used  child  was 
enough  to  make  her  cry ;  and,  timid  as  she 
was,  she  had  often  risked  the  displeasure  of 
her  god  on  earth  by  trying  to  beg  Jack  off 
from  various  punishments.  Had  he  ever 
tried  to  beg  himself  off,  she  would  have  liked 
him  better ;  his  hard  indifference  repelled 
her.  She  herself,  though  a  most  conscien- 


JACK  RAYMOND.  51 

tious  woman,  had  once  even  stepped  a  little 
aside  from  the  exact  truth  to  screen  him  from 
the  Vicar's  anger.  She  had  been  found  out, 
of  course ;  for  Jack,  when  asked  about  the 
matter,  had  told  the  truth  at  once.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  his  habit  of  acknowledg- 
ing his  misdeeds  appeared  to  be  the  result  of 
sheer  bravado,  not  of  any  love  for  veracity ; 
for  he  had  no  scruples  about  telling  any 
number  of  falsehoods  when  it  suited  his  pur- 
pose to  do  so.  But  he  never  prevaricated ; 
when  he  told  a  lie,  he  did  it  deliberately,  with 
a  straight  look  between  the  eyes ;  and  that, 
again,  Aunt  Sarah  could  not  understand.  So 
beyond  much  gentle  moralising,  pathetically 
futile,  her  vicarious  motherhood,  in  his  case, 
could  not  go.  She  lavished  all  her  affection 
on  Molly,  whose  evil  tendencies,  if  they  were 
there  at  all,  were  still  hidden  in  the  mists  of 
babyhood;  and  left  Jack  to  struggle  with  a 
bitter  heart  as  best  he  might. 

He  was  not  envious  because  his  sister  was 
preferred  before  him.  In  a  certain  stiff,  shy 
way  of  his  own  he  was  fond  of  the  child. 
But  they  had  not  much  in  common.  She 


52  JACK   RAYMOND. 

was  not  only  little,  and  a  girl, — he  might 
have  forgiven  these  defects, — she  was  also 
"good."  She  sat  on  people's  laps,  and  shut 
the  door  after  her,  and  was  kissed  and 
praised,  and  had  sweets  given  her  by  visitors, 
who  liked  to  stroke  her  pretty  hair.  Jack 
wondered  sometimes  how  the  caresses  didn't 
make  her  sick,  and  why  she  didn't  cut  the 
hair  off  with  Aunt  Sarah's  scissors  and  throw 
it  in  the  people's  faces.  He  would  have 
dragged  his  out  by  the  roots  if  any  one  had 
"pawed  it  about"  that  way. 

The  only  human  creatures  whom  he  recog- 
nised as  having  any  moral  claim  upon  him 
were  the  larrikins  to  whom,  for  nearly  two 
years  now,  he  had  been  leader.  His  ethical 
code  was  barbaric  and  primitive  ;  it  never 
occurred  to  him  to  think  that  he  was  doing 
anything  mean  or  unworthy  in  breaking 
people's  windows,  looting  their  apples,  or 
wantonly  damaging  their  kitchen  gardens ; 
nor  did  he  think  it  necessary  to  consult  at  all 
the  personal  wishes  of  his  subjects ;  he  was 
the  master,  and  his  will  was  law;  but  to 
abandon  his  boys  in  a  crisis,  or  allow  one  of 


.JACK   RAYMOND.  53 

them  to  take  a  caning  which  he  could  by  any 
manoeuvring  have  transferred  to  his  own 
shoulders,  would  have  seemed  to  him  a  mon- 
strous thing.  His  tiny  kingdom  was  an 
absolute  despotism  ;  in  his  eyes  the  whole 
duty  of  a  subject  consisted  in  obedience,  that 
of  a  ruler  in  loyalty  ;  he  was  splendidly  loyal 
to  his  boys,  but  he  despised  them  in  his 
heart. 

From  human  society,  great  and  small,  he 
came  back  always  with  relief  to  furred  or 
feathered  creatures,  to  cliffs  and  moor  and 
sea.  The  puppies  and  the  rabbits,  the 
village  dogs  and  cats,  all  knew  a  side  of  him 
which  the  Vicar  had  never  seen.  Even  the 
lesser  humans  to  whom  he  extended  his  pro- 
tection never  saw  quite  the  real  Jack  ;  with 
Billy  Greggs  he  was  scornfully  tolerant,  with 
Molly  condescendingly  good-natured;  with 
animals,  especially  if  they  were  small  and 
helpless,  he  could  be  full  of  tender  loving- 
kindness. 

But  the  best  that  was  in  him  was  known 
only  to  Spotty.  She  was  the  old  brown  dog 
in  the  stable  yard;  a  sorry  specimen  truly, 


54  JACK   RAYMOND. 

and,  except  for  Jack,  without  a  friend  in  the 
world.  In  her  best  days  she  had  not  been 
much  to  look  at ;  a  hopeless  mongrel,  bob- 
tailed  and  bandy-legged,  with  a  white  patch 
over  one  ragged  ear.  Now  in  her  old  age  she 
had  gone  blind,  and  was  no  longer  of  any  use 
as  a  watch-dog.  It  would  have  been  kinder 
to  have  her  chloroformed ;  she  was  growing 
too  feeble  to  take  exercise  and  keep  healthy, 
and  was  becoming  a  burden  to  herself  and  an 
object  of  disgust  to  others.  But  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond disliked  the  idea  of  killing  anything ; 
and  the  Vicar  was  too  just  a  man  to  turn  out 
a  faithful  servant  because  she  was  past  her 
work ;  so  Spotty  remained  in  the  yard,  well 
fed  and  housed,  and  tolerated  as  aged 
paupers  are  tolerated. 

On  this  old,  ugly,  miserable  creature, 
whom  death  had  passed  by  and  forgotten, 
was  showered  all  the  hidden  gold  of  Jack's 
affection.  He  never  forgot  to  wash  and 
comb  her,  or  to  soak  her  biscuits  carefully, 
and  never  forgave  any  one  who  laughed  at 
her  infirmities.  Under  his  indifference  and 
callousness  lay  a  dumb,  fierce,  hot  resentment 


JACK  RAYMOND.  55 

against  the  injustice  of  men  and  things.  No 
one  was  ever  fair  to  Spotty,  because  she  had 
grown  old  and  blind ;  as  if  that  in  itself  were 
not  unfair  enough.  No  one  was  ever  fair  to 
him,  because  he  was  born  ugly  and  wicked ; 
and  he  could  no  more  help  that  than  Spotty 
could  help  being  blind.  Their  common 
wrong  was  a  bond  between  them  ;  and  it  was 
Spotty  alone  who  knew  his  secret. 

For  Jack  had  one  secret;  only  one,  and 
that  so  simple  and  so  plainly  written  in  his 
face  that  anybody  could  have  read  it  who  had 
looked  at  him  with  unprejudiced  eyes.  But 
there  were  no  such  eyes  at  the  Vicarage  ; 
and  his  secret  remained  unread.  It  was  that 
he  was  unhappy.  He  had  never  acknowl- 
edged it  to  himself,  and  would  have  been 
amazed  and  indignant  had  any  one  suggested 
it ;  but  it  was  true,  nevertheless.  Though  in 
some  ways,  especially  impish  ways,  he  got  a 
fair  amount  of  enjoyment  out  of  life,  there 
was  always  behind  his  pleasures  a  dull  aching, 
as  of  emptiness  that  nothing  could  fill.  To 
be  glad  when  night  came  because  another 
day  was  over  ;  to  hide  every  little  hurt  and 


56  JACK   RAYMOND. 

grief  away  for  fear  some  one  should  find  it 
out ;  to  have  his  hand  against  every  man  and 
every  man's  hand — often  so  heavy — against 
him,  seemed  to  him  a  matter  of  course ;  if 
he  thought  about  it  all,  he  thought  only 
that  the  world  was  stupidly  managed  some- 
how, and  that  it  was  no  use  to  worry, 
because  one  couldn't  make  things  any 
better. 

It  was  this  secret  hunger  of  the  soul  that 
had  driven  him  to  seek  his  loves  outside  of 
human  companionship.  The  bleak  grey 
Cornish  moorland  was  a  tenderer  mother  to 
him  than  Aunt  Sarah,  with  all  her  kindly 
heart,  had  ever  been.  On  his  worst  days, 
when  mischief  failed  to  help  and  even  fight- 
ing could  not  cure  the  aching  restlessness 
within  him,  he  would  slip  away  and  wander 
on  the  cliffs  alone  for  hours.  Then  he  would 
lie  down  in  some  still,  shadowy  gorge  or 
cleft,  and  bury  himself  in  the  wet  fern,  and 
find  comfort  somehow. 

So,  blind  as  he  was  and  groping  in  the 
dark,  he  had  learned  to  know  and  love  the 
healing  touch  of  nature.  Then,  when  the 


JACK    RAYMOND.  57 

mavis  flew  away,  his  eyes  were  opened,  and 
whereas  he  was  blind,  now  he  saw. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  by  the  window, 
looking  'out ;  at  last  he  undressed  himself  in 
the  dark  and  crept  into  bed,  very  grave  and 
subdued.  Fortunately  there  was  no  one  in 
the  world  who  cared  enough  about  him  to 
look  in  upon  his  sleep,  as  happens  sometimes 
with  boys  who  have  mothers ;  so  his  pride 
was  safe  from  any  one  discovering  that  he 
slept  with  wet  eyelashes.  He  found  it  out 
himself,  though,  in  the  morning,  and  was 
ashamed  for  a  moment.  Then  he  looked 
out  of  the  window,  and  forgot  to  be  self- 
conscious,  seeing  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth. 

Then  followed  glorious  days ;  long  days  of 
wonder  and  rejoicing,  radiant  with  light  and 
song  and  colour,  or  veiled  in  solemn  clouds 
and  mystery.  Of  course  there  were  the  usual 
annoyances  ;  church  on  Sunday,  school  on 
week-days,  family  prayers  and  Bible-readings, 
Aunt  Sarah  and  Uncle  Josiah.  But  these 
disturbances,  after  all,  were  temporary  and 
unimportant ;  he  had  never  realised  before 


58  JACK   RAYMOND. 

how  few  of  the  twenty-four  hours  they  filled, 
how  wide  and  wonderful  were  those  remain- 
ing. Sunday  passed,  and  Monday,  Tuesday, 
Wednesday ;  and  the  first  rapture  of  his 
awakening  still  encircled  him  about;  since 
Saturday  he  had  not  fought  or  quarrelled, 
had  played  no  tricks  and  given  no  trouble 
either  at  home  or  in  school.  Four  consecu- 
tive days  without  so  much  as  a  reprimand 
were  a  new  record  in  his  life ;  according  to 
his  social  traditions  and  standard  of  conduct 
a  disgraceful  one  ;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
to  think  about  the  matter  at  all ;  he  was  be- 
having like  the  "good  boys  "  that  he  held  in 
contempt,  and  had  not  even  found  it  out,  so 
absorbed  he  was  in  the  joy  of  life,  in  splen- 
dours of  sunlight  and  starlight,  in  shining 
sands  and  glittering  foam. 

On  Monday  night  there  had  been  a  thun- 
derstorm ;  and  he  had  slipped  out,  unob- 
served, into  the  roaring  blackness  of  the  moor, 
to  lie  bareheaded  on  the  heather  in  a  torrent 
of  rain.  Then  had  come  Tuesday,  soft  and 
cool  and  silver-grey,  with  tender  shadows 
over  land  and  sea,  after  the  turbulent  glories 


JACK   RAYMOND.  59 

of  the  lightning  god.  Surely  there  was  never 
any  world  so  beautiful,  or  any  boy  so  happy, 
so  splendidly  alive. 

But  the  divinest  day  was  Wednesday. 
From  the  fire-opal  of  the  sunrise  to  the 
cloudy  amethyst  of  twilight,  it  was  a  day  of 
jewels  ;  a  day  of  sapphire  sea  and  diamond 
spray,  of  skylarks  singing  in  far  blue  heights 
and  sunbeams  flaming  on  the  yellow  gorse  ;  a 
day  of  peace  on  earth  and  goodwill — even — 
toward  men.  One  could  not  hate  uncle  him- 
self on  such  a  day. 

Jack  was  up  with  the  dawn  and  on  the 
beach  before  sunrise.  It  was  low  water,  and 
he  scrambled  out  on  to  the  long,  jagged  reef 
which  had  caused  so  many  wrecks  that  the 
precipice  above  it  was  called  "  Deadman's 
Cliff."  When  he  was  tired  of  slipping  about 
on  the  tangle  and  cutting  his  feet  with  the 
sharp  points  of  barnacles,  he  lay  down  beside 
a  shallow  rock  pool  and  looked  into  the  sunlit 
water.  It  was  full  of  brilliant  anemones, 
green  and  pink  and  orange,  open  wide  and 
holding  up  hundreds  of  painted  arms.  In 
one  corner  was  a  fairy  forest  of  zoophytes, 


60  JACK   RAYMOND. 

with  a  sea-snail  trying  earnestly  to  force  a 
passage  through. 

Suddenly,  behind  a  little  clump  of  sea- 
weed, there  was  a  flash  of  prismatic  colour, 
and  silken  ripples  passed  over  the  surface  of 
the  pool.  He  lay  still,  watching.  Presently 
a  tiny  fish,  some  two  inches  long,  slipped  out 
through  the  sea-weed  and  began  to  swim 
round  and  round  the  pool,  glittering  in  pink 
and  silver.  He  plunged  his  hand  into  the 
water  with  a  swift,  dexterous  movement,  and 
caught  the  fish. 

He  lifted  the  little  creature  and  held  it  in 
the  sunshine,  watching  the  flashing  colours 
pass  and  change  along  its  sides  as  it  plunged 
and  struggled  in  his  hand.  Then  suddenly 
he  saw  how  beautiful  it  was,  and  put  it  gently 
back  into  the  water,  and  let  it  dart  away. 
One  had  no  right  to  interfere  with  a  thing 
whose  body  was  made  all  of  rainbows. 

His  hand  was  still  lying  in  the  water,  and 
he  glanced  down  at  it  carelessly.  There  were 
no  rainbows  on  it.;  but  it  was  beautiful ; 
more  beautiful  even  than  the  fish.  He 
opened  and  shut  it  under  the  water ;  and 


JACK   RAYMOND.  61 

watched  the  working  of  the  muscles,  and  the 
strong,  smooth  curve  of  the  wrist.  Yes,  it 
was  beautiful,  and  it  was  a  part  of  him. 

That  afternoon  was  again  a  half-holiday. 
Billy  Greggs  had  suggested  that  they  should 
go  fishing,  as  Saturday's  expedition  had  not 
come  off ;  but  Jack  refused  ;  he  wanted  to  be 
quite  alone,  and  clamber  on  the  rocks  and  look 
down  through  deep  fissures  at  the  ebbing  tide. 

Starting  off  after  early  dinner,  with  a 
pocketful  of  cherries  and  a  drag-net  for  deep 
rock  pools,  he  came  upon  Molly  sitting  alone 
in  the  garden  with  her  head  buried  in  the  big 
lavender  bush. 

"Hullo,  Moll!"  he  said  cheerfully  as  he 
passed. 

There  tfas  no  answer,  and  he  saw  her 
shoulder?)  shake  a  little;  she  was  crying.  He 
turned  bf.ck. 

"Why,  what's  wrong?  Uncle  been  nag- 
ging again  ? " 

She  lifted  up  a  tear-stained  face. 

"  I'm  to  stop  in  ...  all  the  afternoon ! 
And  I  did  want  to  go  and  take  Daisy  to 
bathe  :  Dr.  Jenkins  ordered  her  sea-baths!" 


6a  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Daisy,  the  broken-nosed  doll  lying  on  the 
grass  beside  her,  was  too  far  gone  for  any 
sea-baths  to  help,  or,  for  that  matter,  to  in- 
jure; but  Molly  could  scarcely  be  expected 
to  realise  that. 

"  It's  a  jolly  shame  ! "  said  Jack  indignantly  ; 
he  had  been  kept  in  so  often  himself  that  he 
could  feel  for  her.  "  Poor  old  girl !  What 
had  you  been  doing  ?  " 

The  question  brought  a  burst  of  tears. 

"  I  hadn't  done  anything  !  I  wouldn't  mind 
if  I'd  been  naughty,  but  I  hadn't  !  It's  only 
because  Mary  Anne's  cooking,  and  uncle  says 
I  mustn't  go  alone." 

"  But  you  don't  go  out  with  Mary  Anne 
other  days.  Where  are  those  girls  you 
always  play  with  ?" 

"  Emma's  away  from  home,  and  Janey 
Scott  couldn't  come.  I  can't  help  that!  If 
I'd  been  naughty  it  would  have  been  just  the 
same.  It's  not  fair." 

Jack's  forehead  contracted ;  this  was  an 
echo  of  his  own  grievance.  Either  things 
should  be  arranged  according  to  convenience, 
and  there  should  be  no  rewards  and  punish- 


JACK   RAYMOND.  63 

ments  at  all,  or  people  should  be  punished 
only  when  they  were  to  blame.  Uncle,  and, 
apparently,  uncle's  God,  had  a  very  elaborate 
system  for  dealing  with  offenders  according 
to  their  deserts  ;  but  the  practical  result  of  it 
seemed  always  to  be  that,  if  you  were  unlucky, 
you  were  punished  for  your  misfortunes. 
He  glanced  at  the  sunlit  cliffs  with  a  sigh ; 
he  had  been  counting  so  on  a  perfect  holiday 
alone. 

"  Don't  cry,  old  girl,"  he  said.  "  Let's  go 
and  ask  Aunt  Sarah  whether  you  may  come 
with  me." 

Mr.  Raymond,  fortunately,  was  out ;  and 
Aunt  Sarah,  though  a  little  surprised  at  so 
unusual  a  request  from  Jack,  who  was  gen- 
erally the  most  unsociable  of  boys,  made  no 
difficulties  ;  so  the  two  children  went  down 
the  steep  lane  together,  Jack  a  little  sobered 
and  trying  not  to  feel  disappointed,  Molly 
trotting  beside  him,  radiant  with  happiness. 

In  ten  minutes  he  had  forgotten  all  about 
his  disappointment.  More  delightful  even 
than  the  flashing  water  itself  was  Molly's  joy 
in  it.  With  amazement  he  discovered  that 


64  JACK   RAYMOND. 

this  little  creature,  whom  he  had  always 
looked  down  upon,  possessed,  at  nine  years 
old,  a  sense  of  beauty  to  which  he,  with  all  his 
superiority  of  a  big  boy,  had  only  now  awaked. 
She  hugged  herself  with  ecstasy  at  the 
sight  of  the  green  waves  dashing  up  between 
wet  rocks  and  flinging  showers  of  bright 
spray  into  the  sunlight.  He  took  her  to  a 
favourite  spot  of  his  ;  a  narrow  rock  platform 
on  which  one  could  kneel  beside  a  hole  in  the 
granite,  and  look  through  into  a  cavern  far 
below  where  the  water  foamed  and  thundered. 
As  he  knelt  with  his  arm  about  her,  holding 
her  carefully  so  that  she  should  not  fall,  he 
felt  the  little  body  quiver  against  his  side,  and 
drew  her  back  from  the  edge  of  the  hole. 

44  Don't  be  frightened  !  I  won't  let  you  fall." 

Then  he  saw  that  it  was  not  fear  which 
made  her  tremble.  Her  eyes  were  big  and 
shining  as  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  "do  you  think  God 
lives  down  there  ?  " 

When  the  tide  ebbed  he  took  her  down  to 
the  reef  and  showed  her  wonderful  things. 
They  fed  anemones  with  scraps  of  dead 


JACK    RAYMOND.  65 

limpets  tied  with  strands  of  Molly's  hair, 
which  she  tugged  out  in  the  recklessness  of 
her  excitement ;  and  drew  the  bait  up  again, 
half-devoured,  to  see  the  anemone  "  turn 
sulky  "  and  shrink  into  a  shapeless  lump  of 
jelly.  They  undressed  Daisy  and  bathed  her 
solemnly,  and  dried  her  with  grubby  pocket- 
handkerchiefs,  and  plastered  her  broken  nose 
with  slimy  sea-weed ;  oh,  if  the  Gang  had 
seen  its  captain  playing  with  his  sister's  doll ! 
They  caught  a  shrimp,  and  mimicked  his 
hideous  face,  and  let  him  go  again.  At  last 
they  sat  down  side  by  side  to  eat  their 
cherries,  their  naked  feet  in  a  rock  pool. 

Molly  threw  a  cherry  stone  into  the  pool ; 
and  presently  Jack  heard  her  telling  a  story 
to  herself  as  she  leaned  over  looking  down 
into  the  water ;  she  had  quite  got  over  her 
shyness  with  him  now. 

"...  So  the  cherry  tree  grew  up  in  the 
sea,  and  was  a  sea  cherry  tree  ;  and  there 
were  sea  cherries  all  over  it.  ...  And  one 
day  the  shrimp  came  by  and  saw  the  sea 
cherries,  and  he  thought :  '  I  must  take  some 
of  those  home  for  my  baby  shrimps.'  .  . 


66  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"Molly,"  said  Jack  suddenly,  "do  you 
ever  tell  stories  to  Aunt  Sarah  ?  No,  I  don't 
mean  fibs — of  course  everybody  tells  fibs ;  I 
mean  stories  about  shrimps,  and  cherries,  and 
things?" 

She  looked  round,  shocked  at  such  a  ques- 
tion. 

"Why,  no!" 

Jack  was  quite  abashed. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said  apologetically,  "  I 
couldn't  know,  you  see.  I  thought,  perhaps, 
as  you're  good,  and  she  likes  you  .  .  . 

"  It's  the  easiest  way,"  she  answered  seri- 
ously ;  "  if  you're  good,  they  let  you  alone." 

To  Jack  the  answer  was  a  revelation.  So 
Molly,  too,  lived  in  a  secret  world  that  was  all 
her  own,  and  kept  the  grown-ups  and  their 
dirty  hands  at  arm's  length  !  Her  goodness 
and  his  badness  were  means  to  the  same  end; 
the  difference  was  only  one  of  method. 

"  The  plucky  little  scrap  of  a  thing! "  he 
thought ;  and  looked  at  her  with  new  respect. 

When  all  the  cherries  were  eaten  Molly 
lay  down  on  the  warm  rock  and  went  to  sleep 
with  her  tumbled  head  against  her  arm. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  67 

Jack  put  her  hat  over  her  eyes  to  shade  them 
from  the  sun,  and  sat  still,  looking  out  across 
the  blue,  shimmering  water.  Presently  he 
turned  and  looked  down  at  Molly.  She  was 
fast  asleep.  One  bare  foot  was  tucked  up 
under  her ;  the  other  lay  stretched  out  on  the 
rock,  the  smooth,  clear  skin  still  wet  and 
glistening  in  the  sun.  He  sat  still  for  a  long 
time,  looking  at  her  very  solemnly ;  then  he 
bent  down  and  stroked  the  little  naked  foot. 
It  was  the  first  voluntary  caress  that  he  had 
given  in  his  life  to  any  human  creature. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MR.  HEWITT  was  very  grave  and  silent  in 
school  on  Thursday  morning.  He  passed 
over  mistakes  and  wrote  wrong  figures  on 
the  blackboard,  and  had  dark  lines  under  his 
eyes,  as  if  he  had  slept  badly  or  had  a  tooth- 
ache. 

In  the  middle  of  the  history  class  the  curate 
came  in  hastily  with  an  anxious  look,  and 
said :  "  Come  out  here  a  minute,  will  you, 
Hewitt  ?  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

They  went  out  of  the  room,  and  for  some 
time  the  boys  yawned  and  fidgetted,  lolling 
at  their  desks. 

"  Hullo ! "  said  Charlie  Thompson,  who 
was  looking  out  of  the  window.  "  That's  the 
Roscoe  girl." 

Jim  Greaves  sprang  up  with  a  quick, 
startled  cry;  and  then  sat  down  again.  Jack 
glanced  carelessly  out  of  the  window.  Mag- 
gie Roscoe  was  walking  away  down  the 

63 


JACK   RAYMOND.  69 

road,  clinging  to  the  curate's  arm,  and  sobbing 
bitterly. 

"I  wonder  what's  wrong  with  her?"  he 
thought;  and,  then,  after  a  moment:  "And 
what's  wrong  with  everybody  ?  All  the 
school's  in  the  dumps  to-day." 

Mr.  Hewitt  came  back  and  went  on  with 
the  class ;  but  his  hand  was  shaking  as  he 
held  the  book. 

Presently  he  pulled  himself  together  and 
began  irritably  cross-examining  the  boys  and 
finding  fault  over  trifles.  He  was  usually 
a  patient  teacher,  if  a  dull  one  ;  but  now 
everything  seemed  to  annoy  him.  When  the 
morning  classes  were  finished,  he  called  up 
Jack  and  reprimanded  him  sharply  before  the 
school.  A  window  had  been  found  to  be 
broken. 

"You  were  seen  pitching  up  stones  in  the 
road  yesterday.  That  makes  the  third  pane 
of  glass  this  term  !  " 

Jack  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  had  not 
been  throwing  stones,  and  had  picked  up  the 
pebbles  only  because  of  their  coloured  mark- 
ings; but  if  Mr.  Hewitt  chose  to  put  himself 


70  JACK   RAYMOND. 

in  the  wrong  by  taking  things  for  granted, 
why  should  one  undeceive  him  ? 

"  It  was  the  cat  that  broke  the  window, 
sir,"  one  of  the  boys  put  in.  "  I  saw  her ; 
there  was  a  dog  after  her,  and  she  jumped 
up  and  sent  a  flower-pot  through." 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Hewitt  absently;  "is  that 
,so?" 

Jack  went  out  with  the  sullen  face  which 
he  had  not  worn  since  Saturday.  What  a 
mean  lot  they  were !  Let  them  once  get  a 
spite  against  a  fellow,  and  they  would  always 
be  ready  to  put  anything  on  to  him,  without 
stopping  to  ask  who  was  to  blame.  And  he 
had  got  to  be  at  the  orders  of  an  ass  like 
that.  .  .  . 

Yes,  but  he  would  be  a  man  some  day ;  and 
then  he  would  never  be  at  anybody's  orders 
any  more.  Uncle  and  the  other  cads  could 
do  their  worst ;  what  did  it  all  matter  when 
their  time  was  so  short  ?  Nothing  matters 
when  one  is  going  to  be  free.  He  had  never 
thought  of  that  before ;  now  it  burst  upon 
him  suddenly,  a  splendid  light  of  promise. 
He  walked  down  the  lane  with  shining  eyes  ; 


JACK    RAYMOND.  71 

only  a  few  more  years  now,  and  he  would  be 
a  man. 

By  the  afternoon  Mr.  Hewitt  had  recov- 
ered his  self-command ;  but  he  was  more 
gloomy  than  ever,  and  gave  short,  impatient 
answers  to  the  questions  put  to  him.  Some 
of  the  elder  boys  seemed  as  much  upset  as 
the  schoolmaster ;  and  at  closing-time  the 
class  melted  away  silently,  without  any  of  the 
usual  tricks  and  laughter. 

Jack,  for  his  part,  shouldered  his  books 
and  ran  home  at  the  top  of  his  speed.  If  he 
made  haste  he  could  get  his  preparation 
finished  and  be  out  before  sunset. 

He  jumped  over  the  garden  gate  with  the 
long,  easy  spring  for  which  all  the  Porth- 
carrick  boys  envied  him,  alighting  on  the 
gravel  with  perfect  poise  and  balance.  Then 
he  looked  back  to  measure  the  length  of  the 
jump  with  his  eyes.  It  was  a  creditable  one 
for  a  boy  of  fourteen,  and  the  consciousness 
of  it  thrilled  him  with  delight.  To  be  made 
so  cleanly,  to  have  every  limb  so  strong  and 
supple, — is  that  not  a  joy?  He  looked  down 
at  his  firm,  brown  wrists,  wondering  how  thick 


73  JACK   RAYMOND. 

a  bough  he  could  twist  off  from  the  fuchsia 
hedge  with  one  turn  of  the  close-knit  muscles. 
But  when  he  put  out  his  hand  to  try,  the 
beauty  of  the  slender  crimson  buds  restrained 
him  ;  he  had  never  before  noticed  how  lovely 
was  the  droop  with  which  they  hung,  how 
protectingly  the  young  leaves  were  spread  out 
above  them,  like  the  curved  wings  of  a  sea- 
gull. He  raised  the  branch  gently,  shaking 
all  the  fairy  buds,  and  drew  it  across  his 
cheek. 

A  horrible  cry  broke  out  suddenly  ;  and  he 
let  the  fuchsia  bough  fall  back.  The  cry  was 
repeated ;  it  came  from  the  stable  yard,  and 
the  voice  was  Spotty's.  Some  strange  dog 
must  have  set  on  her — and  Spotty  was  blind. 
He  turned  and  dashed  headlong  towards  the 
yard.  The  old  dog's  cries  sounded  in  his 
ears,  more  and  more  piercing  and  lamentable 
as  he  came  nearer ;  now  there  was  another 
sound  as  well :  the  sharp,  stinging,  regular 
hiss  of  a  whip.  He  stopped  short  an  instant 
by  the  gateway,  catching  his  breath  ;  then 
opened  the  gate  and  entered  the  yard. 

Spotty   was    cowering  on    the    flagstones, 


JACK   RAYMOND.  73 

muzzled  and  chained  to  her  kennel.  She 
could  no  longer  struggle  much,  and  only 
moaned  and  shivered  as  the  whip  came  down 
with  its  even,  sickening  thud.  The  Vicar 
seemed  to  put  all  his  strength  into  every  blow. 

Jack  sprang  forward  with  a  furious  cry. 
The  deliberateness  of  the  thing,  the  muzzle 
and  the  carefully  shortened  chain,  had  set  his 
blood  on  fire.  The  blind  creature  was  help- 
less enough  without  all  that.  In  one  more 
instant  he  would  have  snatched  the  whip  and 
struck  his  uncle  across  the  face  with  it.  Then 
he  saw  what  the  face  was  like,  and  drew  back 
and  stood  still. 

The  Vicar  looked  twenty  years  younger. 
The  lifeless  eyes  were  shining,  the  nostrils 
had  dilated,  little  quivers  of  delight  played  at 
the  corners  of  the  mouth.  He  was  like  a  man 
who  has  drunk  the  elixir  of  life. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  with  the  whip  lifted 
in  the  air,  and  saw  Jack's  white  face.  He 
started  violently,  paused  an  instant,  then 
brought  the  whip  down  with  a  final  hiss  and 
thud.  Spotty  did  not  even  moan  ;  she  was 
quite  still  now. 


74  JACK    RAYMOND. 

The  Vicar  stooped  down  over  the  dog, 
drawing  a  long  breath.  The  hand  holding 
the  whip  shook  a  little,  then  grew  steady. 
When  he  stood  up  again  his  face  had  re- 
turned to  its  grey  and  lifeless  habit. 

"  There  !  "  he  said,  and  twisted  the  lash 
round  the  handle.  "  I  don't  think  she'll  for- 
get that  lesson." 

Jack  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  Spotty 
had  begun  to  stir  again  and  whimper  faintly, 
her  tongue  hanging  out  against  the  wires. 
The  Vicar  knelt  down  and  took  off  the  muz- 
zle ;  unfastened  the  chain,  fetched  some  water 
and  held  the  basin  while  she  lapped. 

"  She'll  be  all  right,"  he  said,  still  looking 
away.  "  It's  a  most  unpleasant  thing  to  have 
to  do  ;  but  it's  more  merciful  in  the  end  to 
give  a  dog  one  thorough  thrashing,  and  not 
need  to  repeat  it.  She'll  obey  another 
time." 

Then  he  realised  that  he  was  apologising 
to  Jack ;  and  turned  round  sharply. 

"  What  are  you  doing  out  of  doors  before 
you.  have  finished  your  lessons  ?  I  won't 
have  the  preparation  neglected,  Jack ;  I've 


JACK   RAYMOND.  75 

told  you  that  already.  Mind  it's  done  before 
I  come  in." 

He  went  away  and  left  Jack  standing, 
white  and  rigid,  with  the  dog  shivering  at  his 
feet. 

Spotty  put  up  her  head  at  last,  to  sniff 
timidly,  and  recognised  her  only  friend.  She 
crawled  up  closer  to  him  for  comfort,  and 
licked  his  foot,  whimpering  softly.  Then 
Jack  sat  down  on  the  flags  beside  her,  and 
sobbed  with  his  head  against  her  neck.  He 
had  not  cried  like  that  since  he  was  quite  a 
little  thing. 

He  got  through  his  preparation  somehow 
before  his  uncle  came  in  to  tea.  The 
Vicar  always  examined  the  lessons  and  was 
generally,  with  good  reason,  dissatisfied  with 
them  ;  but  he  found  no  fault  to-day,  though 
they  were  done  even  worse  than  usual.  The 
evening  dragged  wearily  on  ;  it  seemed  to 
Jack  that  the  clock  would  never  strike  nine. 
When  bed-time  came  at  last,  he  went  up  to 
his  room,  and  sat  down  in  the  dark  on  the 
edge  of  his  bed. 

All  the  evening  he  had  been  watching  his 


76  JACK   RAYMOND. 

uncle's  face,  vainly  trying  to  see  in  it  again  the 
face  that  he  had  seen  in  the  stable  yard. 
Now,  sitting  still,  with  a  hand  over  his  eyes, 
he  could  see  it.  It  stood  out  of  the  darkness, 
the  blunt  mouth  sharpened  and  quivering, 
the  nostrils  full  of  life,  the  eyes  awake  .  .  . 

There  was,  then,  one  thing  in  the  world 
that  uncle  really  enjoyed.  For  it  was  pleas- 
ure that  was  in  the  face,  not  anger.  He 
looked  quite  different  when  he  was  angry. 
He  would  look  angry,  for  instance,  when  he 
should  find  out  about  the  stolen  knife.  .  . 

Cold  sweat  broke  out  suddenly  all  over 
Jack's  body.  He  put  up  both  hands  as  a 
shield.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  rose,  lit  his  candle  and  un- 
dressed. He  lay  down  in  his  bed,  and  the 
forgotten  candle  guttered  all  away  and  went 
out  with  a  trail  of  acrid  smoke,  while  he 
stared  up  into  the  darkness,  as  still  as  though 
asleep. 

As  he  lay,  the  horrible  thing  that  had 
come  upon  him  hammered  itself  down  and 
burned  itself  in  upon  his  understanding. 
When  the  theft  of  the  knife  should  be  dis- 


JACK    RAYMOND.  77 

covered  he  too  would  be  flogged.  He 
would  be  handled  as  Spotty  had  been 
handled,  and  gloated  over  by  that  greedy 
mouth ;  he  on  whom  no  touch  had  been  laid 
since  the  mavis  flew  away.  As  for  all  that 
had  happened  earlier,  it  was  of  no  moment ; 
he  could  look  back  indifferently  on  the  self 
of  a  week  ago,  as  on  a  stranger ;  he  had 
lived  just  five  days. 

There  was  no  escape  ;  and  no  one  would 
understand.  No  one,  no  one  would  ever 
understand  that  he  was  not  the  same  now 
as  last  week  ;  that  the  boy  who  had  been 
flogged  so  often  and  had  laughed  at  it  was 
dead,  and  that  the  new  Jack  in  his  place  had 
never  yet  been  touched  or  shamed.  There 
was  no  hope  for  this  white,  unspotted  new 
self ;  only  last  Saturday  it  had  begun  to  live, 
and  now  uncle  would  lay  hands  on  it  and  it 
would  die. 

Awaking  next  morning  he  sat  up  in  bed 
and  wondered  amazedly  what  it  was  that  had 
happened  to  him  yesterday.  It  seemed  in- 
conceivable that  he,  Jack  Raymond,  of  all 
boys  in  the  world,  had  lain  the  whole  evening 


73  JACK   RAYMOND. 

and  until  late  into  the  night,  wideawake 
in  the  dark,  telling  himself  over  and  over 
again,  as  if  it  were  something  new  and 
terrible,  that  he  was  going  to  be  flogged. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  jumped  out 
of  bed.  "  I  must  have  gone  daft ! "  he 
thought,  and  dismissed  the  subject  from  his 
mind,  as  fit  for  the  consideration  only  of  old 
women,  girls,  and  molly-coddles  generally. 

As  soon  as  he  was  dressed  he  went  out 
into  the  yard  to  look  after  Spotty.  He  had 
rubbed  her  carefully  with  liniment  yesterday, 
and  made  her  bed  as  soft  as  possible ;  and 
she  was  now  able  to  wag  her  tail  feebly  when 
he  stroked  her.  "  Never  mind,  old  girl !  "  he 
said  consolingly;  "he's  a  beast;  but  I've  got 
to  put  up  with  him  too,  and  I  don't  care 
a  hang ! " 

Having  given  Spotty  what  comfort  he 
could,  he  went  into  the  garden  to  see  how 
the  puppies  were  getting  on.  It  was  a  lovely 
morning,  fresh  and  dewy,  and  the  clean  salt 
air  seemed  to  sweep  the  remnants  of  last 
night's  mawkishness  out  of  his  head. 

The  tool  house,  where  the  puppies  lived, 


JACK    RAYMOND.  79 

was  almost  hidden  by  a  thick  growth  of 
tamarisk  and  fuchsia.  As  Jack  stooped  to 
lift  up  a  fat  and  cheerful  puppy,  footsteps 
crunched  the  gravel  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bushes,  and  his  uncle's  voice  sounded  close 
against  his  ear  :  "  Have  you  seen  my  nephew 
this  morning,  Milner?" 

There  was  a  tremendous  hammer  beating 
somewhere,  beating  so  that  the  earth  shook, 
so  that  the  air  was  full  of  the  sound.  But 
that  was  only  for  a  moment ;  before  the  post- 
man's footsteps  had  died  away  along  the 
path,  he  realised  that  the  hammer  was  beat- 
ing in  his  own  pulses. 

He  leaned  idly  against  the  fuchsia  hedge. 
It  was  all  true,  then,  this  dreadful  fancy  of 
last  night.  It  was  ridiculous,  it  was  impos- 
sible, there  was  no  understanding  it ;  but  it 
was  true.  He  had  changed,  and  the  world 
had  not  changed  with  him.  The  things  that 
were  daily  commonplaces  to  every  one  had 
become  death  and  damnation  to  him. 

But  the  day  passed,  and  nothing  hap- 
pened ;  evidently  the  Vicar  had  still  not 
missed  his  knife.  For  three  days  Jack 


8o  JACK    RAYMOND. 

waited,  hourly,  momently,  for  the  thunder- 
bolt to  fall.  Every  sound  or  movement  in 
the  house  caught  at  his  heart  with  a  cold 
hand;  the  very  lifting  of  his  uncle's  eyelids 
would  bring  the  sweat  out  on  his  forehead. 
Once  he  got  up  in  the  night  and  dressed  him- 
self, on  fire  to  go  into  the  Vicar's  room  and 
say :  "  Wake  up !  look  in  your  desk.  I 
have  stolen  your  knife."  Then,  whatever 
should  come,  this  suspense  would  be  over. 
But  when  he  opened  his  door,  the  silence  of 
the  dark  house  drove  him  back,  chilled  with 
fantastic  dread.  On  Monday,  the  fourth 
morning,  he  came  down  to  breakfast  so  pale 
and  heavy-eyed  that  Mrs.  Raymond  was 
frightened. 

"  The  boy  is  ill,  Josiah  ;  he  looks  like  a 
ghost." 

Jack  assured  her  wearily  that  there  was 
nothing  wrong  with  him.  Indeed,  what  was 
wrong  with  him  he  himself  could  not  have 
told  her,  even  had  he  dared  to  try. 

"  You  had  better  not  go  to  school  to-day," 
said  the  Vicar  kindly ;  he  made  a  point  of 
always  being  kind  when  anybody  was  unwell, 


JACK    RAYMOND.  81 

and  Jack  hated  him  the  more  for  it.  "You 
can  do  a  little  Latin  at  home  if  you  feel  up 
to  it  ;  but  not  if  it  makes  your  head  ache. 
Perhaps  you  were  too  much  in  the  sun  yester- 
day." 

Jack  went  up  to  his  room  in  silence.  It 
was  some  time  before  he  could  get  rid  of  his 
aunt ;  she  fussed  about  with  well-meant  im- 
portunity, till  at  last  a  ringing  of  the  front- 
door bell  and  a  sound  of  voices  in  the  hall 
sent  her  downstairs  to  see  who  had  called  at 
so  unusual  an  hour.  "  To  see  the  master 
on  urgent  business,"  Jack  heard  the  servant 
answer.  He  shut  the  door  and  sat  down, 
glad  to  be  alone. 

His  Latin  Reader  was  lying  on  the  table, 
and  he  took  it  up  listlessly ;  one  had  better 
be  doing  lessons,  dull  and  unprofitable  as 
they  were,  than  brooding  in  idleness  over  a 
secret  dread.  He  looked  through  the  index  ; 
bits  of  Cicero,  bits  of  Horace,  bits  of  Tacitus 
— all  duller  one  than  another.  At  last  he 
opened  the  book  at  random,  and  came  upon 
the  story  of  Lucrece. 

He  read  it  through,  not  for  the  first  time, 


8a  JACK    RAYMOND. 

in  the  curious,  detached  way  in  which  school- 
boys read  the  classics,  as  matter  relating  to 
the  parts  of  speech,  not  to  the  lives  of  men 
and  women.  What  was  Lucrece  to  him,  or 
he  to  Lucrece  ?  Indeed,  had  the  story  been 
of  his  own  time  and  race  he  still  would  not 
have  understood  much  about  it. 

A  country  boy,  brought  up  among  dogs 
and  cats  and  horses,  he  had  perforce  become 
familiar  with  a  few  elementary  physiological 
facts ;  but  to  connect  those  facts  with  the 
joys  and  griefs  of  human  beings  had  never 
occurred  to  him.  A  splendidly  clean  and 
wholesome  body ;  a  healthy,  regular  out- 
door life,  filled  with  swimming  and  rowing, 
cricket  and  foot-ball,  bird's-nesting  and 
orchard  robbing,  and  the  absorbing  respon- 
sibilities which  devolved  upon  him  as  captain 
of  a  gang  of  larrikins,  had  prolonged  his 
childhood  beyond  the  age  at  which  most 
boys  begin  to  put  away  childish  things.  The 
one  human  passion  that  he  knew  was  hatred  ; 
about  all  others  he  retained,  at  fourteen,  the 
dense  ignorance,  the  placid  indifference,  of  a 
child  of  six  years  old. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  83 

He  was  in  the  middle  of  parsing  a  sentence 
when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Raymond 
came  in.  She  stood  looking  at  him,  with 
parted  lips,  but  quite  silent,  and  he  saw  that 
her  face  was  white  and  scared,  as  he  remem- 
bered seeing  it  four  years  ago,  when  the  tele- 
gram came  to  say  that  his  father  was 
drowned.  He  sprang  up. 

"Aunt  Sarah!   .    .    ." 

She  spoke  at  last,  in  a  quick,  terrified 
voice. 

"  Go  down.  Your  uncle  wants  you  ;  in  the 
study." 

There  was  a  rushing  noise  in  his  ears  as  he 
went  downstairs  ;  something  seemed  to  catch 
and  hold  him  by  the  throat.  He  opened  the 
study  door.  By  the  window,  with  their  backs 
to  him,  stood  the  curate  and  Mr.  Hewitt, 
talking  earnestly  together  in  undertones. 
The  Vicar  sat  at  his  writing  desk,  his  grey 
head  bent,  his  face  buried  in  both  hands. 

Jack  looked  from  one  to  another.  The 
fanciful  terrors  of  the  last  days  had  slipped 
entirely  out  of  his  mind;  evidently  some 
dreadful  news  had  come,  and  his  thoughts 


84  JACK   RAYMOND. 

flew,  as  a  Cornish  lad's  will,  to  wrecks  and 
disasters  by  sea.  But  the  weather  had  been 
so  fine  lately,  it  could  not  be  that ;  perhaps 
some  one  was  dead.  He  went  up  to  the 
Vicar,  forgetting,  for  once,,  the  long  feud  be- 
tween them. 

"  Uncle,  what  is  it?" 

Mr.  Raymond  lifted  up  his  face,  with  a 
look  upon  it  that  Jack  had  never  seen  before. 
He  rose,  brushing  tears  away  from  his  eyes 
with  an  angry  gesture,  and  turned  slowly  to 
the  curate  and  schoolmaster. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  I  have  to  ask  your 
pardon  for  this  weakness  :  I  have  loved  my 
flock  for  all  these  years,  and  if  I  have  failed 
in  my  duty,  God  knows  I  am  heavily  pun- 
ished." 

"  No  one  can  blame  you,  sir,"  said  the 
curate ;  "  how  could  you  or  any  one  sus- 
pect?" 

"If  any  one  is  to  blame,"  Mr.  Hewitt  put 
in,  "  it  is  I,  who  am  so  constantly  with  the 
boys." 

"  We  are  all  to  blame,"  the  Vicar  answered 
sternly :  "  and  I  most  of  all.  I  have  not 


JACK   RAYMOND.  85 

kept   guard    over    Christ's   lambs,    and   they 
have  strayed  and  fallen  into  the  pit." 

He  took  up  the  Bible  from  his  desk. 

"  At  least,  gentlemen,  I  will  do  my  duty 
now,  and  sift  the  tares  from  the  wheat,  as  is 
commanded  in  God's  Word.  You  may  rest 
assured  that  I  will  probe  this  matter  to  the 
bottom,  not  sparing  my  own  flesh  and  blood." 

As  the  two  men  went  silently  out,  he 
closed  the  door  behind  them  and  turned  to 
his  nephew  with  a  terrible  face. 

"Jack,"  he  said  ;  "  I  know  all." 

Jack  stared  at  him  blankly  ;  the  words  con- 
veyed no  meaning  to  his  mind. 

"  Mr.  Hewitt  kept  his  suspicions  from  me," 
the  Vicar  went  on,  in  the  same  hard,  monoto- 
nous voice,  "  until  he  had  proof.  This 
morning  he  held  an  enquiry  at  the  school, 
and  several  of  your  accomplices  have  already 
confessed.  As  soon  as  we  know  all  the  de- 
tails, the  boys  found  to  be  guilty  will  be  ex- 
pelled. As  for  the  man  you  dealt  with,  he 
has  been  arrested  and  is  now  in  Truro  jail. 
How  long  have  you  been  spreading  this 
poison  among  your  schoolfellows?" 


86  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Jack  put  up  a  hand  to  his  forehead. 
"I  ...  I  don't  understand,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"You  don't  understand.  .  .  ."  The  Vicar 
broke  off,  and  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk. 
"  If  it  will  save  you  from  adding  to  your 
damnation  by  useless  lies,  there  is  the  knife 
you  stole  and  sold,  and  there  is  what  you 
bought  with  it." 

He  flung  the  bishop's  knife  on  the  table, 
and  beside  it  a  large  envelope.  "You  see," 
he  added  with  a  kind  of  dreary  scorn  :  "  you 
may  as  well  confess  at  once." 

Until  now  Jack's  mind  had  been  an  utter 
blank;  but  here,  at  least,  was  something 
definite  and  tangible.  He  picked  up  the 
envelope ;  its  contents,  whatever  they  might 
be,  would  show  him  of  what  he  was  accused. 

He  drew  out  of  it  first  a  little  book,  villain- 
ously printed  on  bad  paper,  and  glanced  at 
the  title.  It  was  in  English,  but  might  as 
well  have  been  in  Chinese,  for  all  he  under- 
stood of  it.  Shaking  his  head,  with  a  hope- 
less sense  of  living  in  a  nightmare,  he  took 
out  the  remaining  contents  of  the  envelope, 


JACK   RAYMOND.  87 

a  set  of  coloured  photographs.  He  looked 
them  over,  one  by  one,  first  in  sheer  amaze- 
ment, then,  as  some  conception  of  their  mean- 
ing gradually  forced  itself  upon  his  under- 
standing, with  speechless,  breathless  horror; 
and  suddenly  flung  them  down  in  a  panic  of 
furious  disgust. 

"What  is  it?  Uncle,  I  don't  understand. 
Oh,  what  are  they  all  for  ?  " 

The  Vicar's  smothered  rage  blazed  up 
uncontrollably.  He  wheeled  round  in  a 
flash,  and  sent  the  boy  staggering  backwards 
with  a  violent  blow  in  the  face. 

"Is  this  a  play-house?"  he  cried.  "Am 
I  to  have  hypocrisy  and  lying  here  as  well  as 
harlotry  ?  " 

He  let  his  hand  fall  by  his  side  and 
unclench  itself  slowly ;  then  turned  away  and 
sat  down  with  a  bitter  little  laugh. 

"  I  congratulate  you,  my  boy ;  you're 
clever  at  acting — like  your  mother." 

Jack  was  standing  still,  both  hands  spread 
out  against  the  wall,  as  he  had  put  them 
instinctively  to  save  himself  from  falling. 
His  face  was  as  white  as  paper. 


88  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  1  can't  understand,"  he  repeated  help- 
lessly. "I  can't  understand.  .  .  ." 

"You'll  understand  presently,"  said  the 
Vicar  in  a  quiet  voice.  "  Come  here  and  sit 
down." 

Jack  obeyed  silently ;  the  room  was  begin- 
ning to  heave  and  sway,  and  he  was  glad  to 
sit  still  for  a  moment,  whatever  was  going  to 
happen  next.  He  did  not  think  of  resenting 
the  blow  or  the  words  which  had  followed  it ; 
they  all  seemed  part  of  the  nightmare.  The 
Vicar  leaned  on  the  table,  shading  his  eyes 
with  one  hand.  When  he  spoke  there  was 
a  stony  hopelessness  about  his  voice  which 
made  his  words  sound  in  the  boy's  ears  like  a 
death  sentence. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once  how  many 
of  your  secrets  have  come  out.  We  know  all 
about  the  gambling,  and  the  circulating  of 
this  sort  of  filth,  and  the  practices  that  have 
been  going  on  in  the  cave  by  Trevanna 
Head,  and  the  seducing  of  Matthew  Roscoe's 
daughter.  She  has  confessed  that  the  guilty 
person  is  one  of  Mr.  Hewitt's  boys,  but  she 
won't  tell  the  name.  I  suppose  it  is  not  you 


JACK   RAYMOND.  89 

who  have  committed  this  last  abomination  ; 
an  hour  ago  I  should  have  believed  it  impos- 
sible at  your  age ;  but  it  seems  I  have  much 
to  learn." 

He  paused.  Jack  was  looking  straight 
before  him,  his  lips  a  little  parted,  his  great 
eyes  wide  and  blank.  There  was  no  place  left 
in  his  mind  even  for  amazement ;  he  seemed 
to  have  fallen  into  a  world  of  spectres  at 
cross  purposes,  a  hollow,  ghostly  world, 
where  he,  and  his  uncle,  and  every  one 
wandered  through  fantastic  evolutions,  like 
dancing  shadows  in  a  fire-lit  room,  void  of 
all  form  and  meaning. 

"  Probably,"  the  Vicar  went  on,  "  it  is  one 
of  your  older  schoolfellows  who  has  ruined 
the  girl ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  ruin  of  the  little  boys  lies  chiefly  on 
your  head.  Thompson  has  confessed,  and 
Greaves,  and  Polwheal ;  and  their  statement 
implicates  you  directly,  apart  from  the  evi- 
dence of  the  knife." 

"The  knife  .  .  ."  Jack  repeated,  catching 
at  the  first  word  which  brought  up  a  definite 
image  in  this  ghastly  confusion  of  dreams. 


90  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  It  was  found  in  the  possession  of  the 
agent  who  sold  you  the  books  and — other 
things.  He  acknowledged  to  the  police  that 
he  had  received  it  in  part  payment  of  a  debt 
for  his  wares  from  a  Porthcarrick  schoolboy, 
who  had  been  dealing  with  him  for  some  time. 
No  boy  but  you  knew  where  the  knife  was 
kept." 

After  a  moment  he  rose  to  leave  the  room ; 
but  paused  and  looked  back  with  his  hand  on 
the  door. 

"Jack,"  he  said,  "when  your  father  died  I 
took  you  and  your  sister  in  for  his  sake ;  but 
I  did  it  with  a  heavy  heart,  for  you  have  in 
you  the  blood  of  a  harlot.  I  have  fed  and 
clothed  you  and  dealt  with  you  as  if  you  had 
been  my  own ;  and  now  I  have  my  reward. 
You  have  brought  the  abomination  of  deso- 
lation into  my  house  and  the  pit  of  hell 
before  my  door ;  you  have  made  me  ashamed 
among  my  neighbours,  and  blackened  my  face 
in  the  eyes  of  my  congregation.  I  thank 
God  that  your  father  is  dead." 

He  turned  and  went  out. 

Jack   slowly   lifted    his    head   and   looked 


JACK    RAYMOND.  91 

round  him.  A  few  images  had  begun  to 
shape  themselves,  more  or  less  distinctly,  out 
of  the  chaos  of  his  mind.  One  thing,  at 
least,  was  quite  plain :  he  was  being  made 
the  scape-goat  for  some  one ;  perhaps  for  the 
whole  gang,  but  certainly  for  Billy  Greggs, 
and  for  Thompson  and  Greaves  and  Pol- 
wheal.  "  Of  course,"  he  told  himself  wearily, 
"they  knew  uncle  would  believe  anything 
against  me."  It  was  simple  enough  ;  he  had 
been  leader  in  mischief  to  all  these  boys ; 
again  and  again  he  had  taken  things  upon 
himself  to  shield  them,  accepting,  for  his 
part,  as  a  faithful  captain  should,  the  smallest 
share  of  booty  and  the  largest  of  punish- 
ment ;  and  all  the  while  they  had  been  dab- 
bling in  black  secrets,  and  laughing  at  him 
for  a  fool  behind  his  back.  Now  they  had 
turned  and  sold  him  to  his  enemy  to  save 
their  own  skins. 

He  .took  up  the  photographs  again  and 
looked  at  them,  wearily  struggling  to  under- 
stand what  use  or  pleasure  things  so  mean- 
ingless and  ugly  could  be  to  any  one.  Then, 
suddenly,  the  story  that  he  had  been  reading 


92  JACK   RAYMOND. 

upstairs  came  back  upon  his  memory,  and  he 
understood  why  Lucrece  had  killed  herself. 
He  laid  down  the  photographs  and  sat 
still. 

He  understood  it  all  now,  the  mysterious 
terror  of  the  last  few  days ;  the  whole  thing 
was  so  easy,  so  hideously  easy  and  simple. 
You  jog  along  in  your  ordinary  way  and  live 
your  ordinary  life,  until  your  uncle,  or  Tar- 
quin,  or  somebody  else — what  matter  for  the 
person  or  the  manner  of  the  thing  ? — some 
one  whose  muscles  are  stronger  than  yours 
are,  pounces  down  upon  you,  and  does  some 
horrible  shame  to  your  body,  and  goes  his 
way ;  and  you,  that  were  clean,  are  never 
clean  any  more.  Then,  if  you  can  bear  it, 
you  go  on  living ;  and  if  not,  you  end  like 
Lucrece. 

As  Mrs.  Raymond  came  in  with  tears  run- 
ning down  her  face,  and  clasped  him  in  her 
arms,  he  looked  up,  wondering,  in  a  dull, 
careless  way,  for  whom  she  was  so  sorry. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  she  sobbed,  "why 
will  you  not  confess?" 

Jack  drew  himself  away  from  her  and  rose. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  93 

He  looked  at  the  photographs  on  the  table  ; 
then  at  the  weeping  woman. 

"  Aunt  Sarah,  do  you  believe  I  did  that 
sort  of  thing  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Jack  !  "  she  burst  out ;  "  if  you  had 
ever  been  a  good  boy  I  would  believe  you, 
no  matter  how  much  appearances  might  be 
against  you:  but  you  know,  yourself.  .  • 

She  broke  off  to  dry  her  eyes  with  her 
handkerchief. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  answered  slowly  ;  "  I've 
always  been  wicked,  haven't  I  ?  I  suppose  I 
was  born  so.  Aunt  Sarah,  if  I  were  to  die 
now,  do  you  think  I  should  go  straight  to 
hell?" 

She  came  up  to  him  and  took  his  hand 
gently. 

11  Listen,  my  dear  ;  I'm  not  wise  and  clever, 
like  your  uncle,  but  I  mean  well  by  you.  I  do 
indeed ;  and  I  think  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  It's 
partly  our  fault  that  you  have  fallen  into 
the  snares  of  the  evil  one.  I  mean  ...  we 
may  have  been  a  little  harsh  .  .  .  sometimes 
.  .  .  and  you  were  afraid  to  confess  the  first 
sin,  and  went  on  from  bad  to  worse — and  you 


94  JACK   RAYMOND. 

see — you  must  see,  this  is  the  path  that  leads 
to  hell.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  know  it's  hard  to  con- 
fess now  .  .  .  and  your  uncle  is  so  terribly 
angry — of  course,  he's  right,  for  it's  a  deadly 
sin.  But  he'll  forgive  you  in  time — I  know 
he  will.  And  Jack,  I'll  do  my  best  to  stand 
between  you  and  him, — I  will  indeed, — if 
you'll  only  confess." 

He  listened  gravely  till  the  piteous,  con- 
fused appeal  was  finished  ;  then  he  drew  his 
hand  away,  standing  very  straight  and  still. 
He  was  tall  for  his  age,  and  his  eyes  were 
nearly  on  a  level  with  hers. 

"Aunt  Sarah,  I  think  you  had  better  let  me 
alone.  It's  a  deadly  sin,  of  course.  Is  it  true 
that  my  mother  was  a  harlot  ?" 

She  drew  back  with  a  little  cry  of  horror. 
"Jack!" 

"  Uncle  says  so.  It's  a  word  in  the  Bible. 
And  if  she  was,  I  can't  help  it,  can  I  ?  And 
anyhow,  what's  the  use  of  crying?  It  won't 
help  me — oh,  you'd  better  go  away  !  " 

"  Go  away,"  a  hard  voice  echoed  behind 
them.  "  A  Christian  woman  has  nothing  to 
do  with  these  abominations." 


JACK    RAYMOND.  95 

The  Vicar  took  up  the  photographs  and  put 
them  into  his  desk. 

"  Go  away,"  he  repeated  sternly.  "  This  is 
no  place  for  you  ;  Jack  knows  how  to  tell 
you  of  things  that  are  not  for  my  wife  to 
hear." 

"Josiah!"  she  cried  out,  and  caught  him 
by  the  arm,  "  Josiah, — for  God's  sake — re- 
member, he's  a  child." 

The  Vicar  turned  on  her  with  another  burst 
of  rage. 

"  A  child !  A  child  who  can  teach  me, 

with  my  grey  hair,  things  that  I Go  out, 

go  out  !  it  is  for  men  to  deal  with  such 
children." 

She  went  out,  weeping  bitterly.  Then  Jack 
looked  up,  and  understood.  He  came  for- 
wards gravely,  quite  self-possessed  now. 

"  Uncle,  I  want  to  tell  you.  This  is  all  a 
mistake  ;  I  know  nothing  about  these  things  ; 
I  never  saw  them  in  my  life  before ;  I  never 
heard  a  word  about  them." 

The  Vicar  took  up  the  knife.  "  And 
this  ? " 

"  Yes,  I    took  the   knife,  that's  true  ;  and 


96  JACK    RAYMOND. 

sold  it ;  but  not  for  those  things,  and  not  to 
the  man  that  you  said " 

"What  did  you  sell  it  for  ?" 

"  I  sold  it  to  a  boy— for " 

"  To  what  boy  ?     And  for  what  ?  " 

Jack  stopped  short.  His  heart  seemed  to 
give  one  great  bound,  and  then  stand  still. 
He  saw  once  more  the  cage  door  opened  wide, 
and  the  happy  bird,  with  outstretched  wings, 
darting  away  into  a  golden  sunset,  like  the 
dove  that  returned  not  again. 

"  What  did  you  sell  it  for  ?" 

For  an  instant  Jack  paused,  considering 
what  explanation  he  could  invent ;  then  he 
resigned  himself.  Somehow,  he  could  not 
find  a  lie  to  tell,  nor  indeed  would  lies  avail 
him  anything ;  and  the  truth  was  worse  than 
useless.  Even  if  he  could  force  himself  to 
drag  into  speech  a  thing  so  secret  and  so 
holy,  there  was  no  one  in  all  the  world  who 
would  believe  him. 

"  Oh,"  he  cried  ;  "  it's  hopeless  !  I  can't  tell 
you  ;  I  can't  tell  you — and  if  I  did  you'd 
never  understand." 

"  I    understand    enough,"    the    Vicar  an- 


JACK   RAYMOND.  97 

swered.  "  May  Christ  defend  me  from 
understanding  any  more  ! " 

He  sat  down  at  his  desk,  motioning  the 
boy  to  sit  opposite  him,  took  out  his  watch 
and  laid  it  between  them  on  the  table. 

"  I  have  given  up  what  little  hope  I  had  of 
appealing  to  you  by  any  other  means  than 
force.  What  I  have  to  think  of  now  is  how 
to  purify  the  school  from  defilement  and  how 
to  protect  the  innocence  of  those  who  are  not 
yet  contaminated,  and,  above  all,  of  your 
little  sister." 

His  voice  faltered  for  an  instant;  then  he 
continued  steadily  :  "  I  must  know  the  whole 
truth,  and  I  mean  to  have  it  from  you  at  any 
cost.  Do  you  understand?  You  have  ten 
minutes  to  decide  whether  you  will  confess  at 
once,  or  whether  I  must  force  you." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  Except  for 
the  ticking  of  the  watch,  there  was  absolute 
silence  in  the  room. 

As  Jack  had  said,  the  position  was  hope- 
less ;  the  very  quality  of  his  innocence  ren- 
dered it,  to  his  uncle's  mind,  not  merely 
incredible,  but  unthinkable.  Virtuous  con- 


98  JACK    RAYMOND. 

duct  the  Vicar  could  understand  and  appre- 
ciate ;  his  own  was  eminently  virtuous,  for 
his  deep  religious  convictions  had  sustained 
him  through  a  long  and  patient  struggle  with 
the  unwholesome  impulses  which  had  beset 
him  in  his  cold  and  morbid  youth.  Like  cer- 
tain mediaeval  saints,  he  had  learned,  by  much 
prayer  and  penitence,  to  resist  temptations 
which  would  not  have  tempted  any  healthy 
man  ;  had  he  failed  to  resist  them  it  might 
have  been  better  for  defenceless  creatures 
at  his  mercy.  The  diseased  imagination, 
driven  inwards,  fed  upon  itself ;  and  the  lust 
of  cruelty  had  grown  up,  as  a  fungus  grows, 
upon  the  buried  rottenness  of  other  lusts. 
It  was  now  many  years  since  there  had  been 
a  page  in  his  private  life  which  he  would 
have  been  ashamed  for  his  neighbours'  eyes 
to  read  ;  and  he  held  that  every  man  can,  if 
he  will,  conquer  the  impure  desires  of  the 
flesh  ;  but  of  an  imagination  naturally  chaste 
and  clean  it  was  not  in  him  to  conceive. 

His  thoughts  went  back  to  his  own  boy- 
hood, to  the  time  when,  at  sixteen,  he  himself 
had  stood  upon  the  verge  of  the  pit.  As- 


JACK    RAYMOND.  99 

suredly,  in  his  most  unregenerate  days,  he 
had  never  been  guilty  of  anything  so  mon- 
strous as  the  revelations  of  this  morning ; 
nevertheless,  he  had  come  near  to  being 
expelled  from  school  for  corrupting  the 
morality  of  the  younger  boys.  No  irrevo- 
cable harm  had  been  done  ;  yet,  after  more 
than  thirty  years,  the  blood  went  up  to  his 
forehead  at  the  recollection.  He  thought  of 
his  sullen  obstinacy  when  found  out;  his 
insistence,  in  the  face  of  absolute  proof  to  the 
contrary,  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter; 
his  panic  of  terror  on  hearing  that  his  father 
had  been  sent  for.  He  remembered  how  the 
iron-faced  old  Puritan  had  arrived,  silent  and 
grim,  and  had  wrung  confession  out  of  him 
by  sheer  physical  violence.  "  It  cured  me," 
he  thought,  "once  for  all;  and  it  will  cure 
even  Jack,  with  all  his  vices." 

As  for  Jack,  he  did  not  think,  in  any  con- 
scious way,  at  all ;  the  lamed  imagination 
stumbled  helplessly  among  familiar  trifles, 
falling  upon  now  one,  and  now  another.  A 
red  rose-bud  was  tapping  on  the  shutter; 
and  he  thought :  "  The  wind  is  in  the  south." 


ico  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Then  he  remembered  a  stormy  afternoon  last 
January,  and  the  slanting  rain  which  had 
lashed  against  the  fuchsia  hedge,  and  Molly 
in  the  tool  house,  mourning  for  Tiddles. 

The  hand  of  the  watch  had  crept  past  nine 
of  the  ten  minute  marks.  He  remembered 
climbing  one  day  on  Deadman's  Cliff,  and 
seeing  a  rabbit  which  some  one  had  shot,  but 
not  killed,  and  which  had  fallen  to  an  inac- 
cessible place,  and  lay  there,  bleeding  to 
death.  He  could  see  the  quivering  of  its  feet 
again  quite  distinctly,  and  the  white  tuft  of 
the  tail,  and  the  blood  trickling  in  a  thin,  slow 
stream  down  the  grey  rock  face.  Now  again, 
something  was  bleeding  to  death,  as  the 
watch  ticked.  When  the  hand  should  reach 
the  minute  mark  the  thing  would  die ;  and 
after  that  nothing  in  the  world  would  ever 
matter  any  more. 

The  ten  minutes  were  over.  Mr.  Ray- 
mond rose  and  took  the  boy  by  the  arm. 
"Come  upstairs,"  he  said. 

They  went  up  in  silence  into  Jack's  room; 
and  the  key  turned  in  the  lock. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ON  Friday  evening  after  family  prayers 
Mr.  Raymond  went  up,  as  usual,  to  the  locked 
gable  room.  It  was  after  sunset,  but  there 
was  still  light  enough  to  see. 

Jack  was  crouching  on  the  floor,  half- 
dressed,  in  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room. 
He  would  stay  so  without  moving,  sometimes, 
for  hours  together.  On  the  table  stood  a 
plate  of  bread  and  a  water-jug.  There  was 
also  a  Bible,  for  examination  by  the  question 
must  alternate  with  prayer  and  solemn  exhor- 
tation, or  it  would  seem  too  like  mere  butchery. 
The  bread,  to-day  at  least,  had  been  a  little 
neglected,  but  there  was  no  water  left  in  the 

jug- 
Jack,   for  the   most   part,  had   been    quite 

passive.  He  had  not  tried  to  escape  by  the 
window,  yet  the  descent,  though  less  easy  than 
from  the  other  rooms,  was  possible,  had  the 
idea  but  occurred  to  him.  On  Tuesday  even- 

101 


102  JACK   RAYMOND. 

ing  he  had  sprung  suddenly  at  his  uncle  and 
tried  to  strangle  him.  For  one  moment  the 
furious  pressure  of  fingers  on  his  throat  had 
made  the  Vicar  wild  with  fear;  then  the  boy 
had  been  overpowered  and  flung  down  on  the 
floor.  And  then  had  followed  horrors  which 
would  haunt  the  dreams  of  both  for  years  to 
come. 

After  that  his  hands  had  been  tied  ;  but  the 
precaution  was  needless ;  he  had  no  thought 
of  resistance.  There  had  been  some  helpless, 
mechanical  struggling,  but  nothing  more. 
When  unfastened  he  would  cower  down  again 
in  his  corner,  silent,  understanding  nothing. 
Now,  as  his  uncle  approached  and  spoke  to 
him,  he  dropped  face  downwards  on  the  floor 
in  hysterical  convulsions. 

If,  at  the  beginning,  it  had  occurred  to  the 
Vicar  as  a  conceivable  possibility  that  any 
boy  could  hold  out  so  long,  he  would  cer- 
tainly never  have  entered  upon  the  contest; 
but  having  once  made  the  initial  mistake,  to 
give  in  now  would  be  the  end  of  all  his  au- 
thority. And  yet,  he  must  give  in  ;  his  posi- 
tion was  no  longer  bearable.  The  villagers 


JACK   RAYMOND.  103 

had  already  begun  to  whisper  and  glance  at 
each  other  when  he  passed  in  the  street ;  and 
now  this  .  .  . 

He  fetched  water  from  the  next  room,  and 
tried  to  make  the  boy  drink  it.  But  Jack's 
teeth  were  set  like  a  vice.  When  at  last  the 
dumb  writhing  stopped,  he  began  to  sob 
uncontrollably. 

"  Thank  God ! "  the  Vicar  rnurmured. 
This,  without  doubt,  was  the  final  break-down 
of  the  stubborn  will  that  he  had  set  himself 
to  conquer ;  the  hardest  victory  he  had  ever 
won.  He  rose  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief. 

He  had  accomplished,  without  flinching,  a 
very  painful  duty.  He  had  disregarded  not 
merely  his  own  natural  repugnance,  but  the 
tears  and  entreaties  of  the  household,  and 
even  a  grave  danger  of  misrepresentation  and 
scandal ;  and,  probably,  he  had  saved  the 
boy's  soul  alive.  He  thought  of  the  dead 
sailor  among  the  sunken  reefs  by  Longships 
Light.  "  It  wouldn't  go  on  if  Captain  John 
were  alive,"  he  had  heard  one  fisherman's 
wife  say  to  another  that  morning.  She  was 
right.  Poor  John  would  never  have  had  firm- 


104  JACK   RAYMOND. 

ness  enough  to  drive  out  the  dumb  devil 
which  had  possessed  the  boy ;  but  he  would 
be  grateful  on  the  Day  of  Judgment  if  h« 
found  his  son  among  the  saved. 

The  sobbing  had  stopped  at  last ;  Jack  was 
lying  on  his  bed,  quite  still,  his  face  buried  in 
the  pillow.  The  Vicar  sat  down  beside  him 
and  touched  him  gently  on  the  arm. 

"  There,  Jack,  don't  cry  any  more ;  sit  up 
and  listen  to  me." 

Jack  sat  up  obediently,  but  he  shrank  away 
as  far  as  he  could.  Apparently  he  had  not 
been  crying,  from  the  look  of  his  eyes. 
There  was  a  curious  glitter  in  them. 

"  My   dear    boy,"   the    Vicar   began    with 
gentle  solemnity;  "all  this  has  been  as  dread- 
ful to  me  as  to  you  ;  I  have  seldom  had  so 
i 

hard  a  duty  to  perform.  But  as  a  Christian 
man  and  a  minister  of  God's  word,  I  will  not 
and  I  dare  not  tolerate  impurity.  That  my 
house  should  have  been  made  a  centre  of 
defilement  and  contamination,  to  spread  the 
poison  of  vice  among  my  flock  ;  that  my  dead 
brother's  child  should  have  been  a  cause  of 
offence  to  these  innocent  members  of  Christ, 


JACK    RAYMOND.  ^      105 

has  been  to  me  perhaps  the  bitterest  dis- 
appointment of  my  life." 

He  paused  a  moment.  Jack  had  not 
moved.  A  sense  of  fear  came  over  the  Vicar 
as  he  saw  how  wide  and  strained  the  great 
eyes  were.  His  voice  began  to  shake  a  little. 
"I  know,"  he  went  on,  "that  you  now  think 
me  harsh  and  cruel ;  but  you  will  thank  me 
for  it  some  day.  My  child,  you  have  been  in 
danger  of  hell  fire." 

The  boy  was  still  motionless ;  he  seemed 
scarcely  to  breathe.  The  Vicar  took  him  by 
the  hand. 

"  But  I  see  that  your  evil  pride  is  broken, 
and  that  you  are  sorry  for  your  sin.  Come 
and  lay  your  hand  on  God's  holy  Book,  and 
promise  me  that  you  will  abandon  your 
wickedness.  Then  we  will  kneel  down  to- 
gether and  pray  that  it  may  please  Him  to 
forgive  you  this  deadly  sin  and  to  lead  you 
into  righteousness." 

He  rose,  holding  the  boy's  hand.  It  was 
silently,  furtively  pulled  away. 

"  Jack !"  he  cried  out.  "  Have  you  still  not 
repented  ?  " 


106  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Jack  stood  up  and  looked  round  him  two  or 
three  times,  like  a  creature  caught  in  a  trap. 
His  breathing  had  a  sharp  staccato  sound. 

"Are  you  .  .  .  going  on?"  he  said.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  he  had  spoken  since 
Tuesday  night. 

"Jack!"  the  Vicar  cried  again.  A  slow 
dark  flush  went  up  to  his  forehead ;  the  line 
of  his  mouth  grew  thin  and  straight.  Some- 
thing atavistic,  something  sensual  and  violent 
came  over  the  whole  face.  The  nostrils 
began  to  quiver. 

"Jack,"  he  repeated  for  the  third  time,  and 
stopped  a  moment.  "  Do  you  mean  to  ... 
defy  me  ?  " 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 
Then  the  Vicar's  eyes  crept  slowly  down- 
wards to  the  naked  shoulder  and  to  the 
straight  red  bar  across  it.  The  old  cannibal 
craving  that  he  knew  so  well  was  taking 
possession  of  him  again ;  the  maddening 
physical  lust  to  see  something  struggle.  He 
put  out  a  greedy  hand  and  felt  the  wound. 

The  touch  sent  fire  through  his  pulses. 
Yet,  in  the  instant  before  he  gave  himself  up 


JACK  RAYMOND.  107 

to  the  pleasures  of  his  damnation,  he  had  time 
to  see  his  victim  shrink  away  as  if  from  lep- 
rosy, and  to  think :  "  The  child  has  under- 
stood." 

Jack  went  slowly  to  the  bed-post  and  put 
up  his  hands  to  be  tied. 

That  night,  when  the  household  was  asleep, 
he  dragged  himself  up  off  the  floor.  He  had 
lain  there,  shivering,  his  head  down  on  his 
arms,  ever  since  his  uncle  went  out. 

He  looked  round  the  room.  No  light  was 
allowed  him,  but  the  night  was  clear  and  the 
moon  shone  in  at  the  window.  In  the  ivy 
outside  a  bird  began  to  twitter  sleepily. 

He  reached  the  table  at  last,  and  drank 
some  water.  After  that  he  was  less  inclined 
to  tumble  down  when  he  tried  to  walk,  and 
managed  to  open  the  cupboard  door  and 
take  out  the  candle  end  and  matches  which  he 
had  hidden  there  some  fortnight  ago.  He 
had  done  it  for  a  purpose,  but  what  purpose 
he  had  forgotten  ;  and  indeed,  the  objects  and 
desires  of  the  Jack  who  had  lived  a  fortnight 
ago  concerned  him  not  at  all. 


io8  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Having  got  a  light  he  opened  the  Bible, 
and  tried  to  find  the  passage  which  was  run- 
ning in  his  head.  As  familiar  as  he  was  with 
the  Scriptures,  it  took  him  a  long  time ;  his 
hands  were  so  stiff  and  swollen,  and  shook  so 
as  he  turned  the  leaves.  Besides,  he  was  sick 
and  giddy,  and  had  to  keep  shutting  his 
eyes  to  wait  till  the  letters  grew  steady  on  the 
page.  But  he  found  it  at  last ;  the  twenty- 
seventh  chapter  of  the  Book  of  Deuteronomy ; 
the  chapter  of  the  mount  of  cursing.  Then 
he  stooped  laboriously  and  picked  up  the 
whip.  It  had  been  thrown  down  on  the  floor, 
when  at  last  the  Vicar's  thirst  was  satisfied. 
He  laid  it  across  the  open  book,  and  pressed 
the  red  lash  down  upon  the  nineteenth  verse : 
"  Curse4  be  he  that  perverteth  the  judgment 
of  the  stranger,  fatherless,  and  widow.  And 
all  the  people  shall  say,  Amen." 

Then  he  climbed  out  on  to  the  window  sill 
and  let  himself  down  by  the  ivy.  He  had 
done  it  often  enough  before,  without  any 
thought  of  danger;  but  to-night,  as  he  reached 
the  projecting  ledge,  the  dizziness  overcame 
him  again,  the  wall  seemed  to  sway  and  lurch 


JACK    RAYMOND.  109 

forwards  and  the  garden  bed  below  to  rise 
up,  rushing  upon  him.  He  threw  up  his 
hands  and  fell. 

The  rest  of  the  night  was  a  medley  of  con- 
fused impressions  and  strange  things  happen- 
ing without  any  ordered  sequence ;  impres- 
sions of  its  being  very  hot,  and  then  again 
very  cold  ;  of  huge  crowds  of  people  surging 
about  noisily  and  fading  suddenly  away ;  of 
something  burning,  pressed  up  against  his 
right  arm  ;  of  tumult  and  of  lights  and  rushing 
water ;  and,  here  and  there,  black  intervals  of 
silence. 

After  dawn  he  woke  up  somehow,  and 
crawled  into  the  wood-shed  close  at  hand. 
There  was  little  conscious  purpose  in  the 
action  ;  hardly  more  than  the  blind  instinct  of 
a  wounded  animal,  to  hide  and  die  in  some 
dark  place.  He  realised  that  his  right  arm 
was  broken  ;  but  beyond  that  he  was  not  very 
clear  about  anything,  except  that  he  was  cold 
and  giddy,  and  wished,  if  he  was  going  to  die, 
he  could  die  a  bit  quicker  and  get  it  over. 
Dying  unrepentant  after  always  having  been 
such  a  wicked  boy,  he  would  of  course  go  to 


no  JACK   RAYMOND. 

hell ;  but  that  troubled  him  little  ;  it  is  a  long 
time  yet  till  the  Judgment  Day,  and  hell  is  as 
good  as  any  other  place  when  you  feel  so  sick. 

About  eight  o'clock  the  Vicar  came  down 
into  the  garden.  His  eyes  were  hard  and 
steely  with  anger ;  he  had  been  in  the  empty 
gable  room  and  had  seen  the  marked  Bible 
and  the  broken  ivy  hanging  from  the  wall. 
What  if  the  boy  had  run  away  and  gone  to 
the  villagers,  or  to  the  Dissenting  minister  ? 
More  probably  he  was  trying  to  make  his 
way  to  Falmouth,  with  some  wild  notion  of 
going  to  sea.  But  there  was  yet  another  pos- 
sibility .  .  . 

The  Vicar  clenched  his  hands.  "  If  I  had 
only  not  touched  him.  .  .  "  he  thought ;  and 
flushed  angrily  at  the  memory  of  the  bare 
shoulder  and  the  red  wound  which  had  driven 
him  mad  with  desire.  What  had  happened 
to  him  yesterday  he  dared  not  call  by  its 
name,  even  in  thought;  yet  he  knew  well 
enough  what  it  was.  All  night  he  had  been 
haunted  by  dreams  that  he  had  believed 
would  never  trouble  him  again  ;  he,  whose 
life  was  so  strict,  whose  imagination,  for  years 


JACK    RAYMOND.  ill 

past,  had  been  so  steadily  controlled.  When 
a  young  man,  just  ordained,  he  had  caught  a 
rat  one  evening  in  his  London  bedroom  after 
many  fruitless  efforts ;  the  long  search  had 
angered  him,  and  the  creature,  when  caught  at 
last,  had  died  no  easy  death.  Then  he  had 
gone  out ;  and,  slinking  home  at  daybreak, 
sickened  and  remorseful,  had  said  to  himself : 
"  It's  the  fault  of  the  rat."  Now  his  anger 
was  bitter  against  Jack,  who  had  been  a  cause 
of  stumbling  and  offence  to  him  in  his  sober 
maturity,  and  had  brought  back  memories 
and  longings  of  which  he  was  ashamed. 

The  open  door  of  the  wood-shed  caught  his 
eyes,  and  he  looked  in.  The  figure  huddled 
up  among  the  faggots  crept  further  into  its 
dim  corner.  He  approached  and  stooped 
down. 

"  Jack,  what  are  you  doing  there  ?" 

The  boy  shrank  a  little  further  away. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  Have  you  fallen 
and  hurt  yourself  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You  got  out  of  the  window  ?  You  were 
thinking  of  running  away  ?  Stand  up  ! " 


112  JACK    RAYMOND. 

He  paused  a  moment,  waiting  to  be  obeyed  ; 
but  there  was  no  movement.  He  felt  that 
his  self-control  was  going  again  ;  this  cower- 
ing impotence,  this  voiceless  terror  tempted 
'  him  beyond  endurance. 

"  Stand  up  !  "  he  repeated. 

Jack  raised  himself  a  little  and  looked  up. 
The  red  flash  of  the  retina  showed  behind  his 
eyes,  as  the  flame  leaps  out  in  a  smouldering 
tinder  heap  that  flares  up,  suddenly  on  fire. 

"Well?"  he  said,  "will  you  kill  me,  or 
must  I  kill  you  ?  " 

A  mist  blurred  the  man's  sight ;  he  struck 
out  blindly,  with  a  clenched  hand. 

As  Jack  dropped,  like  a  thing  struck  dead, 
silently  in  a  heap  at  his  feet,  he  realised  what 
he  had  done.  In  the  first  shock  of  fear  he 
thought  that  it  was  he  who  had  broken  the 
arm.  At  his  call  for  help  Mrs.  Raymond 
came  running  out  from  the  house. 

"Josiah!     Oh,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Help  me  carry  him  indoors,  and  send 
for  the  doctor  as  quick  as  you  can.  Make 
haste  ! " 

She   bent   down    to   enter   the   shed ;    but 


JACK   RAYMOND.  113 

stopped  short,  seeing  the  boy  lying  on  the 
ground.  She  stood  still  for  a  moment,  look- 
ing; then  turned  on  her  husband. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  "  she  said. 

His  eyes  fell  before  hers. 

"  I  don't  know." 

She  stooped  without  another  word  and 
helped  him  to  lift  the  boy;  and  he  knew, 
like  Philip  of  Spain,  that  his  subjects  had 
condemned  him. 

For  some  time  Jack  only  passed  from  one 
fainting  fit  into  another.  Dr.  Jenkins,  hastily 
summoned,  looked  round  with  a  grave  face 
after  he  had  felt  the  pulse. 

"  Some  more  brandy ;  and  get  hot  appli- 
cations, quick  !  And  send  for  Dr.  Williams  ; 
I  want  a  second  opinion." 

The  Vicar  was  almost  as  white  as  Jack. 

"  Is  there  any  .  .  .  danger?"  he  faltered. 

"  The  pulse  is  very  low.  Why  was  I  not 
called  in  sooner?" 

The  Vicar  moistened  his  lips. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  again.  Dr. 
Jenkins  looked  round  keenly,  his  hand  on 
the  pulse. 


ii4  JACK   RAYMOND. 

11  You  don't  know  when  it  happened  ?  Nor 
how?" 

"  No." 

The  doctor  turned  back  to  his  patient. 

By  the  time  Dr.  Williams  arrived  the 
danger  of  collapse  was  over,  and  the  old  man 
was  a  little  surprised  that  his  colleague 
should  have  thought  it  necessary  to  send  for 
him.  The  operation  of  setting  the  bone 
brought  on  another  fainting  fit ;  but  this  time 
the  boy  soon  rallied,  and  lay  with  half-closed 
eyes,  glancing  now  and  then  indifferently 
at  the  figures  moving  round  the  sofa.  He 
wished  they  would  leave  off  pulling  him 
about,  but  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  protest, 
and  if  he  did  they  would  probably  take  no 
notice ;  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
submit.  When  his  uncle  approached  him  he 
shuddered  and  turned  his  head  away  ;  other- 
wise he  was  quite  passive  and  docile,  but 
would  answer  no  questions. 

"Did  he  remember  falling?  Was  it  from 
window-ledge?  When  was  it?  How  did  it 
happen  ?" 

He  only  shook  his  head  in  silence. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  115 

Then  they  brought  him  something  to 
drink  ;  and  he  took  it  obediently,  wondering 
why  they  could  not  let  him  alone,  and  why 
the  glass  should  jingle  so  against  his  teeth. 
But  he  felt  much  stronger  and  more  alive 
after  it,  which  indeed  was  small  gain.  The 
position  in  which  he  lay  was  hurting  him  very 
much  ;  and  he  made  several  patient  efforts 
to  change  it,  stopping  perforce  when  too 
many  sparks  danced  before  his  eyes,  and 
stubbornly  trying  again  as  soon  as  he  could 
breathe.  But  he  gave  up  the  struggle  at 
last,  and  lay  still,  biting  his  lip  and  wishing 
he  were  dead.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him 
to  ask  any  one's  help. 

"  Do  you  want  the  pillow  shifted  ?  "  asked 
the  Vicar. 

Jack  looked  up  at  him  silently  ;  and  Dr. 
Jenkins,  standing  near,  saw  the  deadly  vin- 
dictiveness  in  the  black  eyes  and  bent  down 
over  the  sofa. 

"  Is  the  arm  hurting  you  much  now  ?" 
"  It's  not  so  bad  when  you  let  it  alone." 
"  Does  anything  else  hurt  you  except  the 
arm?" 


Ii6  JACK    RAYMOND. 

Jack  looked  round  at  him  slowly,  with 
grave  contempt. 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  I  haven't 
made  a  fuss,  have  I  ?  " 

"Indeed  you  haven't,  you  little  Spartan," 
said  Dr.  Williams,  turning  his  head  with  a 
smile.  He  had  overheard  only  the  last 
words.  "  I  wish  all  grown-up  patients  made 
so  little — don't  you,  Jenkins  ?  " 

Dr.  Jenkins  said  nothing.  He  had  keener 
eyes  than  the  older  man,  and  to  him  the 
steady,  practised  stoicism  of  this  mere  child 
was  a  frightful  thing  to  see.  The  rope  marks 
on  the  wrists  had  aroused  his  suspicions  at 
the  first,  and  he  had  been  watching  quietly. 
When  no  one  else  was  looking  he  had 
seen  the  boy  put  up  his  left  hand  furtively, 
and  bite  it.  The  action  had  explained  to  him 
the  savage  little  dints  marking  the  brown  skin 
in  so  many  places ;  apparently  the  mere 
clenching  of  teeth  had  often  not  proved  help 
enough.  "  You  didn't  learn  that  trick  in  one 
night,"  he  thought;  "and  you  know  more 
than  you  care  to  tell.  We  haven't  got  to 
the  bottom  of  this  story  yet." 


JACK   RAYMOND.  117 

Jack  said  nothing  either,  but  his  mouth 
twitched.  He  had  had  enough  of  posing  as 
a  Spartan,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  sob 
and  shriek  like  other  children.  But  it  was 
too  late  in  the  day  to  begin  that  now,  and 
besides,  he  was  too  tired;  so  he  looked  out 
of  the  window  and  held  his  tongue. 

"  Do  you  feel  better  now  ? "  asked  Dr. 
Williams,  seeing  that  the  boy  had  left  off 
trembling.  "  Then  we'll  just  unfasten  your 
things  and  make  sure  there's  no  more  mis- 
chief anywhere." 

"  I  think  I  saw  a  cut  on  the  right  shoulder," 
Dr.  Jenkins  put  in.  There  was  something 
unusual  in  his  tone,  so  that  Jack  looked  up  at 
him  again  quickly  and  then  dropped  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  we  must  expect  to  find  a  few  little 
cuts  and  bruises  after  such  a  tumble,"  said 
the  old  doctor  cheerfully.  "  You  needn't 
shiver  so,  my  boy  ;  I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you 
any  more  ;  that's  all  over.  Hullo  !" 

He  had  uncovered  the  stained  shirt. 

"  Why,  what  the  dickens  have  you  been 
doing  to  yourself?  Tumbling  out  of  win- 
dow every  night  for  a  month?  You  never 


u8  JACK   RAYMOND. 

got  into  this  state  by  ...  Jenkins,  come 
here ;  look  at  this  child's  shoulders !  Why, 
it's  .  .  ." 

Then  there  was  dead  silence,  while  the 
three  men  watched  each  other's  faces.  At 
last  Jack  looked  up  suddenly  at  his  uncle,  and 
their  eyes  met. 

"  Jack!"  the  clergyman  whispered  hoarsely, 
with  lips  as  colourless  as  the  boy's  own. 
"  For  God's  sake,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  the 
arm  was  broken  ?  " 

Jack  only  looked  at  him  and  laughed. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ANGRY  as  Dr.  Jenkins  was,  he  held  his 
tongue.  His  first  impulse,  however,  on  leav- 
ing the  house,  had  been  to  make  the  whole 
matter  public  ;  and  it  was  only  after  a  hot  dis- 
cussion with  his  colleague  that  he  had  agreed 
to  keep  silence. 

"  Professional  secrecy  ! "  He  had  inter- 
rupted the  old  man's  arguments,  as  they 
walked  together  down  the  lane.  "  And  if  I 
were  called  to  a  house  and  saw  murder  being 
done,  would  you  expect  me  to  keep  up  profes- 
sional secrecy  then  ?  This  is  not  so  far  off  it. 
All  this  talk  of  the  Vicar  and  his  respect- 
ability— thank  Heaven  some  of  the  world's  not 
respectable  at  that  rate !  I  didn't  often  come 
across  things  so  bad  as  this  when  I  was  prac- 
tising in  the  slums  of  Liverpool.  One  would 
think  the  child  had  been  clawed  by  a  wild 
beast." 

"  It's  a  ghastly  business,  I  don't  deny,"  Dr. 
Williams  had  answered  mildly.  "  But  what 

119 


120  JACK    RAYMOND. 

good  will  you  do  to  any  one  by  exposing  it  ? 
You'll  ruin  his  career,  there  will  be  a  horrible 
scandal  in  the  papers,  and  the  boy's  position 
will  be  worse  than  ever.  And  then,  think  of 
the  poor  wife  ! " 

But  the  reticence  of  the  two  doctors  was  of 
little  avail.  Probably  the  story  leaked  out 
first  through  the  servants  ;  however  that  may 
have  been,  by  Monday  evening  Porthcarrick 
and  all  the  neighbouring  villages  were  ringing 
with  the  scandal  of  the  Vicarage.  Even  the 
intolerant,  gouty,  bad-tempered  old  Tory 
squire  came  down  from  his  chough's  nest  at  the 
top  of  the  cliff  to  discuss  the  matter  solemnly 
with  the  schoolmaster  and  curate.  Seeing 
that  there  was  no  longer  anything  to  conceal, 
and  that  silence  only  led  to  the  circulation  of 
exaggerated  reports,  the  two  doctors  con- 
sented to  tell  what  they  knew.  Mr.  Hewitt 
then  gave  them  a  detailed  account  of  the  enor- 
mities of  which  Jack  had  been  found  guilty ; 
and  the  curate  earnestly  pointed  out  that  the 
Vicar's  action,  "  much  as  all  of  us  must  regret 
it,"  was,  after  all,  only  the  result  of  too  great 
zeal  in  the  cause  of  public  morality. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  121 

"And  what's  all  that  to  me,  sir?"  roared 
the  squire.  "You  don't  suppose  I  need  to  be 
told  that  Jack  Raymond's  a  damned  young 
scoundrel  ?  Every  cow  in  Porthcarrick  knows 
that,  and  it's  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 
If  the  boy's  too  bad  to  live  among  decent 
folks,  send  him  to  a  reformatory — what  else 
do  we  keep  them  up  out  of  the  rates  for  ? 
But  while  I'm  lord  of  the  manor  there  shall 
be  no  vivisecting  and  Spanish  Inquisitions 
here,  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why." 

In  the  end  the  matter  was,  of  course, 
hushed  up,  though  not  without  a  stormy  scene 
at  the  Vicarage.  At  any  other  time  Mr. 
Raymond  would  have  loftily  resented  the  in- 
terference of  outsiders  in  his  domestic  con- 
cerns ;  but  the  shock  of  finding  out  on  Satur- 
day morning  how  narrowly  he  had  escaped  a 
tragedy,  had  startled  him  out  of  all  his  mental 
habits.  Seated  at  his  desk,  his  head  resting 
on  one  hand,  his  foot  nervously  tapping  the 
floor,  he  listened  to  everything  that  his  ac- 
cusers had  to  say  ;  and  looked  up  at  last,  with 
a  sigh. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  right,  gentle- 


122  JACK   RAYMOND. 

men.  I  have  been  to  blame  in  this  matter ; 
but  I  did  all  for  the  best.  A  little  injury  to 
one  perishable  body  seemed  to  me  of  small 
account  as  against  the  utter  destruction  of  so 
many  immortal  souls.  Perhaps,  Providence 
having  so  greatly  afflicted  me  in  the  character 
of  my  nephew,  I  did  wrong  ever  to  let  him 
enter  a  school  where  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  contaminating  others.  I  have  heard,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Dr.  Jenkins,  "that  some 
doctors  believe  these  vicious  tendencies  can 
be  eradicated  by  a  special  course  of  hygienic 
treatment ;  but  the  idea  seems  to  me  to  be 
based  on  a  profoundly  immoral  conception. 
How  can  hygiene  cure  sin  ?" 

"  I'm  not  a  theologian,"  said  the  doctor 
bluntly;  "and  I  have  been  busy  saving  the 
boy's  life — and  his  reason,  I  hope ;  not  think- 
ing about  his  morals." 

A  greyer  shade  of  pallor  crept  over  the 
Vicar's  face. 

"  Have  you  any  fear  for  his  mind  ? "  he 
asked. 

Dr.  Jenkins  pulled  himself  up  sharply,  feel- 
ing that  he  had  been  too  brutal. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  i«3 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  it's  not  so  bad  as  that ; 
but  I  have  some  fear  of  hysteria.  The  boy  is 
suffering  from  nervous  shock." 

Mrs.  Raymond,  coming  into  the  study  a 
little  later,  found  the  Vicar  sitting  alone  with 
an  ashen  face.  He  rose  hastily  as  she 
entered  ;  the  consciousness  that  he  had  lost 
the  respect  of  his  parishioners  was  enough 
to  bear,  without  the  sight  of  his  wife's  swollen 
eyelids. 

"Josiah!"  she  said  with  an  effort,  as  he 
was  leaving  the  room.  He  turned  back  and 
faced  her  proudly. 

"Yes,  Sarah?" 

"  When  you  go  upstairs  .  .  .  would  you 
mind  .  .  .  not  speaking  in  the  passage  ? 
It  ...  upsets  Jack  so  .  .  ." 

"  My  voice  upsets  him,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  ...  you  remember  calling  Mary 
Anne  last  night  ?  Jack  heard  you,  and  he 
went  into  a  sort  of  fit.  He's  .  .  .  he's  very 
ill,  Josiah." 

Her  voice  trailed  off  into  a  miserable 
quaver.  After  all  her  years  of  wifely  sub- 
mission, she  was  ashamed  of  her  husband. 


124  JACK    RAYMOND. 

She  would  have  died  rather  than  tell  him  so ; 
and  there  was  no  need,  for  he  had  read  it  in 
her  eyes. 

•  «  •  •  . 

Perhaps  the  only  person  in  Porthcarrick 
who  heard  nothing  of  the  subject  was  Jack 
himself.  It  was,  of  course,  never  mentioned 
in  his  room  ;  nor,  indeed,  was  he  in  a  state  to 
listen,  had  it  been  spoken  of.  For  a  fort- 
night he  was  more  or  less  delirious  every 
evening  and  some  part,  at  least,  of  nearly 
every  night.  In  the  daytime  he  usually  lay 
quite  passively,  sometimes  moaning  under  his 
breath,  more  often  in  a  kind  of  heavy  stupor. 
If  spoken  to,  he  would  raise  his  eyelids 
slowly,  with  a  look  of  weary  indifference  or 
cold  dislike,  and  drop  them  again,  still  in 
silence.  His  uncle's  presence  in  the  sick- 
room threw  him  into  such  paroxysms  of 
terror  that  Dr.  Jenkins  was  obliged  to  pro- 
hibit it  altogether;  but  nothing  else  seemed 
to  affect  him  at  all.  Even  the  daily  ordeal 
of  dressing  the  wounds  scarcely  roused  him. 
On  the  first  occasion  Mrs.  Raymond,  who 
was  helping  the  doctor,  had  burst  into 


JACK    RAYMOND.  125 

passionate  tears  of  horror  and  shame  when 
the  bandages  were  removed  ;  and  the  boy 
had  merely  glanced  at  her  with  a  faint, 
petulant  whisper :  "  I  wish  you'd  let  me 
alone  ! " 

His  illness  was  a  longer  one  than  had  been 
at  first  expected.  No  complications  set  in, 
but  for  some  time  he  simply  failed  to  get 
well.  The  arm  was  mending  steadily  ;  even 
the  lacerations  were  nearly  healed,  and  he 
still  lay  in  the  same  state  of  utter  prostration, 
of  continually  recurring  slight  fever.  With 
time  and  careful  nursing,  however,  he  began 
to  rally ;  and  at  last,  one  day  in  August,  a 
listless,  pallid  ghost  of  Jack  came  downstairs 
to  lie  on  the  drawing-room  sofa. 

Little  as  it  mattered,  there  was  a  certain 
consolation  in  getting  well.  People  left  off 
fidgetting  about,  and  sitting  in  the  room,  and 
asking,  "  Does  your  head  ache  ? "  and, 
"Did  I  hurt  you?"  Indeed,  when  Dr. 
Jenkins  said,  "  He's  all  right  now  ;  he  only 
needs  to  get  strong  again,"  Aunt  Sarah  and 
every  one  else  seemed  to  feel  a  sense  of  relief 
in  being  able  to  avoid  him.  They  still 


126  JACK   RAYMOND. 

treated  him  as  an  invalid ;  arranged  the  sofa- 
cushions  carefully,  and  dosed  him  at  stated 
intervals  with  tonics  and  beef  tea  ;  but  other- 
wise they  left  him  alone.  Molly  he  saw  now 
and  then  for  a  moment,  a  scared,  shy  creature 
in  a  pinafore,  staring  at  him  timidly  from 
behind  tangled  curls;  she  had  caught  the 
sense  of  horror  and  of  secrecy  about  the 
house,  and  connected  it  vaguely  with  the 
big  brother  who  was  ill.  He,  for  his  part, 
would  glance  at  her  and  turn  away ;  she  no 
longer  interested  him.  The  worst  was  that, 
coming  back  into  the  life  of  the  household, 
he  must  perforce  meet  his  uncle  again.  Yet, 
for  all  his  agony  of  dread  beforehand,  when 
the  time  came  he  was  indifferent.  They 
spoke  of  trifles,  avoiding  one  another's 
eyes. 

Out  of  apathy  and  blankness  he  passed 
into  dull  curiosity.  His  mind,  that  had 
stopped  as  a  clock  stops  in  an  earthquake, 
stirred  again  reluctantly,  but  only  to  move 
round  and  round  in  one  small  circle,  a 
lethargic  bondslave  stumbling  through  care- 
less repetitions  of  a  task  without  a  meaning. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  127 

Always  and  always  it  was  the  same  riddle : 
the  underlying  connection  between  ugly 
things  externally  so  different.  That  such  a 
connection  existed  he  had  no  doubt  at  all ; 
what  it  might  be  he  cared  little,  yet  came 
back  to  the  problem  day  after  day,  brooding 
indifferently,  piecing  out,  bit  by  bit,  a  dim 
and  shapeless  theory  of  monstrous  things 
that  madhouse  doctors  know. 

Fragments  overheard,  in  far-off  days  before 
the  mavis  flew  away,  of  whispered  conversa- 
tions between  schoolmates  who  had  seemed 
to  him  boys  like  himself  ;  phrases  from  the 
Bible,  read  so  often  that  the  sequence  of  their 
words  had  grown  familiar,  while  yet  they  had 
no  meaning;  chance  things  seen  on  neigh- 
bouring dairy  farms ;  scraps  of  old  stories 
from  the  Latin  Reader;  the  photographs 
which  had  shown  him  what  all  these  things 
were,  came  back  and  ranged  themselves  be- 
fore his  understanding.  Also  he  remembered 
the  look  on  his  uncle's  face  that  last  night  in 
the  gable  room,  and  the  faint  foreshadowing 
of  that  same  look  when  their  eyes  had  met 
above  the  helpless  dog  in  the  stable  yard. 


I28  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Such  a  face,  surely,  Tarquin  had  worn  by  the 
bedside  of  Lucrece. 

On  the  last  Sunday  in  the  month  Dr. 
Jenkins  called  at  the  Vicarage.  Afternoon 
service  was  over,  but  the  family  had  not  yet 
returned  from  church.  He  found  Jack  alone, 
lying  on  the  couch  beside  the  window,  staring 
out  across  the  rain  swept  moorland  with  wide, 
hopeless  eyes. 

Like  every  one  else,  the  doctor  had  taken 
the  truth  of  the  accusations  for  granted,  and 
until  now  he  had  felt  toward  the  boy  only  a 
cold  and  impersonal  pity  ;  but  at  this  mo- 
ment he  forgot  everything  except  the  desire 
to  comfort. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  he  said  presently, 
"that  you  would  get  on  better  away  from 
home?" 

Something  stiffened  in  the  tragic  face. 

"Yes  ;  that's  why  uncle  won't  let  me  go." 

It  was  said  without  any  hysterical  bitter- 
ness, simply  as  a  statement  of  a  fact. 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  him  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  asked  him  whether  I  might  go  to  school 
in  some  other  part  of  the  country." 


JACK   RAYMOND.  129 

"And  he  objects?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Jack,"  said  the  doctor  after  a  pause, 
"  do  you  understand  why  your  uncle  does  not 
let  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  never  supposed  he  would,"  Jack  an- 
swered quietly,  "  when  he  can  have  the  fun 
of  keeping  me  here.  Did  you  ever  watch  him 
train  a  puppy  ?  Uncle  likes  to  see  anything 
kick." 

His  tone  made  the  doctor  shudder ;  it 
was  so  still  and  murderous.  A  little  silence 
followed,  while  the  man  frowned  thoughtfully 
and  the  boy  returned  to  his  hopeless  scrutiny 
of  the  wet  landscape. 

"  I  believe,"  Dr.  Jenkins  said  at  last,  "  I 
could  persuade  him." 

"  Of  course  you  could ;  you  know  too 
much." 

"  Look  here,  my  boy,  I  don't  like  cynics, 
even  grown-up  ones.  Suppose  I  were  to 
speak  for  you  ?  " 

Jack's  mouth  set  itself  in  a  harder  line. 

"Why  should  you?  What  is  it  to 
you  ?  " 


1 3o  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  Nothing ;  except  that  I  see  you  are  un- 
happy, and  am  sorry  for  you." 

Jack  turned  suddenly,  sitting  bolt  upright; 
and  some  hidden  thing  leaped  up  in  his  eyes. 

"  D'you  mean  you  want  to  help  me  ?" 

"  If  I  can,"  the  doctor  answered,  perplexed 
and  very  grave. 

Jack  was  crushing  his  hands  together 
fiercely  ;  his  voice  sounded  hoarse  and  broken. 
"  Then  get  me  out  of  this  !  Get  me  away 
somewhere,  so  I  shan't  see  uncle  any  more. 
I  ...  can't  go  on  here  .  .  .  you  don't 
understand,  of  course  ;  I'll  keep  on  as  long  as 
I  can,  but  I  shan't  be  able  to  stand  it  much 
longer  .  .  . 

His  speech  faded  out  suddenly,  like  a  gusty 
wind  dying  down.  The  doctor  looked  at  him, 
wondering. 

"  Let  us  be  open  with  each  other,  boy,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  I  know  all  this  has  been  hard 
on  you — brutally  hard ;  and  I'm  more  sorry 
for  you  than  I  can  say.  I  believe  if  your 
uncle  had  begun  by  trusting  you  instead  of 
.  .  .  well,  never  mind  that.  Anyway,  suppose 
we  try  trusting  you  now.  Most  likely  the  real 


JACK    RAYMOND.  131 

reason  he  won't  let  you  go  to  school  is  that 
he's  afraid  you  .  .  .  won't  be  a  good  com- 
panion for  the  boys  you'll  meet  there.  Isn't 
that  .  .  .  ?" 

Looking  round  to  put  the  question,  he 
stopped  short ;  the  boy  was  watching  him 
silently,  with  a  look  that  caught  his  breath  to 
see ;  a  cold,  secret,  steady  look  from  under 
lowered  eyelids. 

"  You  think  that's  why  ?"  There  had  been 
a  little  pause ;  but  at  the  sound  of  Jack's  voice 
the  doctor  recovered  himself  and  asked 
gravely : 

"  Don't  you  ?  " 

The  boy  let  his  eyes  fall  slowly  ;  he  had 
realised  that  Dr.  Jenkins  understood  nothing. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  any  reason  ?  "  the  doctor 
persisted.  Again  there  was  a  perceptible 
pause. 

"  He  said  he  must  keep  the  curse  to  himself 
and  not  let  it  loose  on  others,"  Jack  answered 
in  his  apathetic,  passive  way,  as  if  speaking 
of  strangers. 

"  I  thought  so.  Now,  a  friend  of  mine  is 
headmaster  of  a  good  school  in  Yorkshire ; 


13*  JACK   RAYMOND. 

and  I  think,  if  I  talk  the  thing  over  with  your 
uncle,  he'll  let  me  recommend  you  to  him  on 
my  own  responsibility.  It  will  be  a  heavy 
responsibility,  Jack,  after  what  has  happened ; 
but  I  should  just  make  up  my  mind  to  trust 
you.  You  wouldn't  make  me  regret  that, 
would  you  ?  " 

A  sullen  fire  was  beginning  to  glow  in 
Jack's  eyes.  After  waiting  a  little  for  him  to 
speak,  the  doctor  added  softly : 

"You  see,  my  boy,  I  must  think  of  the 
others  too.  If  any  little  fellow  came  to  ruin 
through  you,  and  it  was  my  fault,  I  should 
never  forgive  myself." 

"Then  why  .should  I  go  to  a  good  school, 
if  I'm  so  bad?"  Jack  broke  in.  "  I've  had 
enough  of  good  people.  Surely  there's  some 
one  in  the  world  that's  bad  enough  already 
not  to  be  harmed  by  coming  near  me  ?  Why 
should  I  go  to  school  at  all  ?  I'd  rather  begin 
and  earn  my  own  bread.  I'm  strong  enough, 
and  I  ...  He  broke  off,  and  then  added 
with  a  little  laugh:  "I  shan't  be  too  partic- 
ular. I'll  go  as  cabin-boy  on  a  slaver  if  you 
like,  so  uncle  isn't  there." 


JACK   RAYMOND.  133 

"Come,  my  lad,  that's  nonsense,"  the 
doctor  gently  remonstrated.  "  Think  it  over, 
and  just  give  me  your  promise  that  you'll 
turn  over  a  new  leaf  and  give  up  all  those 
habits,  and  I'll " 

Jack  wrenched  his  hand  savagely  away. 
"  I'll  promise  nothing.  I'll  find  a  way  out 
myself." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Jack,"  said  Dr.  Jenkins  gravely. 
"  You'd  have  done  better  to  let  me  help  you." 

He  had  no  chance  to  say  any  more,  for  the 
family  returned  from  church,  and  Molly  at 
once  absorbed  him.  She  was  his  best  friend 
in  Porthcarrick ;  he  had  conceived  for  her 
the  peculiar  kind  of  serious,  fraternal  affec- 
tion which  lonely  bachelors  sometimes  feel 
for  a  very  innocent  and  babyish  little  girl. 

Jack  had  relapsed  into  his  usual  sullen 
silence.  Till  tea  was  finished  he  scarcely 
spoke. 

"  Uncle,"  he  said  suddenly. 

He  so  seldom  spoke  to  the  Vicar  now,  un- 
less obliged  to,  that  every  one  looked  up. 

"  Is  it  quite  settled  that  I  mayn't  go  to 
school  ?  " 


134  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Mr,  Raymond's  face  grew  hard. 

"  Quite ;  and  you  know  why.  You  have 
had  your  answer;  now  that  is  enough  about 
the  matter." 

"Very  well ;  I  only  wanted  to  be  sure." 

"  You'd  better  lie  down  now,  Jack,"  said 
Mrs.  Raymond  timidly.  This  conversation 
in  the  doctor's  presence  made  her  uncom- 
fortable. "  I'll  come  and  read  to  you  after 
Molly  goes  to  bed." 

Jack  lay  down.  He  had  become  very 
docile  in  trifles  since  his  illness. 

"  Dr.  Jenkins  has  promised  to  read  now," 
he  said  carelessly. 

The  doctor  looked  round  in  surprise  ;  he 
had  made  no  such  promise.  Jack  was  look- 
ing at  him  steadily,  and  he  thought  again, 
how  unnatural  that  suppressed  intensity  was 
in  a  boy's  face. 

"  You  mustn't  worry  Dr.  Jenkins,"  said 
Aunt  Sarah.  "  I'll  read  to  you." 

"  Dr.  Jenkins  promised,"  Jack  repeated. 
His  face  had  set  jn  the  immovable  lines  that 
made  it  look  like  a  mask  ;  there  was  a  violent 
domination  in  the  black  eyes.  Dr.  Jenkins 


JACK   RAYMOND.  135 

came  up  to  the  sofa.  He  was  attracted,  in 
spite  of  himself,  by  this  masterful  personality. 

"  I'll  read  if  you  like,  my  boy.  What  is  it 
to  be — a  story  ?  " 

"  A  chapter,  please  ;  we  read  nothing  but 
the  Bible  on  Sundays." 

"Are  you  sure  it's  not  troubling  you  too 
much,  Dr.  Jenkins?"  Mrs.  Raymond  asked. 
As  the  doctor  turned  to  answer  her,  he  felt 
the  sudden  grip  of  Jack's  fingers  on  his  wrist. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted, if  you  and  Mr.  Raymond  will  put  up 
with  my  reading ;  I'm  not  much  of  an  elocu- 
tionist. Allow  me." 

He  placed  a  chair  for  her,  adding  softly  : 
"  You'd  better  humour  him  as  much  as  pos- 
sible just  now ;  he  still  gets  a  bit  feverish 
towards  evening." 

She  sat  down  and  took  Molly  on  her  lap. 

"  I've  found  the  place,  sir,"  said  Jack, 
holding  out  the  brown  Bible.  "  May  I  have 
the  sofa  turned  round  a  bit  more  ?  The  light 
hurts  my  eyes.  Yes,  that's  right,  thanks." 

He  was  now  facing  his  uncle's  arm-chair. 
Dr.  Jenkins  sat  down  beside  him,  and  took 


136  JACK   RAYMOND. 

the  Bible.     It  was  open  at  the  chapter  with 
the  marked  verse. 

"Surely  you  don't  want  this  one?"  he 
asked  in  surprise.  "  It's  the  commination 
service." 

The  Vicar  looked  up  uneasily.  "  You  had 
better  read  the  lessons  for  the  day,"  he  said. 

"  I  read  them  this  morning,"  said  Jack  in 
his  indifferent  voice.  "  This  one,  if  you  don't 
mind,  sir;  I've  had  to  learn  it  by  heart,  and 
I'm  not  sure  I've  got  it  right." 

The  contrast  between  his  face  and  his 
speech  had  roused  the  doctor's  curiosity. 
"  Master  Jack  has  a  will  of  his  own,"  he 
thought ;  "  I'm  glad  it's  not  I  that  have  to 
manage  him."  However,  he  began  to  read 
without  further  protest ;  he  was  puzzled, 
and  also  a  little  bit  amused  at  being  domi- 
neered over  in  this  fashion  by  a  disgraced 
schoolboy. 

Jack's  lips  moved  silently  as  he  lay  watch-* 
ing  his  uncle ;  evidently  he  was  following  the 
text  from  memory.  The  doctor  read  on, 
passing  the  nineteenth  verse,  where  the 
brown  stain  marked  the  page,  and  skipping 


JACK   RAYMOND.  137 

the  improper  passages,  though  his  hearers 
knew  them  by  heart.  He  felt  embarrassed 
and  uncomfortable,  almost  annoyed. 

"  I  think  we  can  find  something  more 
suitable  than  this,"  he  said,  when  the  chapter 
was  finished.  "  Suppose  I  read  the  story 
of  ..." 

"The  next  chapter,  please."  Jack  spoke 
softly,  without  turning  or  removing  his  eyes 
from  the  figure  in  the  arm-chair. 

"  Don't  be  troublesome,  Jack,"  said  the 
Vicar  sharply.  "  Let  Dr.  Jenkins  choose." 

Jack's  fingers  closed  round  the  doctor's 
wrist.  "  Go  on,  please,"  he  whispered,  with- 
out moving.  "  The  next  chapter  ... 

His  face  was  still  quite  colourless  and  set. 
"  I  wonder  what  the  boy  is  up  to  ? "  Dr. 
Jenkins  thought.  "  Some  devilry,  certainly." 

He  was  not  so  familiar  with  the  Bible  as 
the  Raymonds  were.  Glancing  over  the 
opening  verses  of  the  twenty-eighth  chapter, 
he  began  to  read,  well  content  to  have  got 
through  the  maledictions  and  come  to  the 
blessings.  After  the  first  column  he  realised 
what  the  chapter  is  about. 


138  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  Cursed  shalt  thou  be  in  the  city,  and 
cursed  shalt  thou  be  in  the  field.  Cursed 
shall  be  thy  basket  and  thy  store.  Cursed 
shall  be  the  fruit  of  thy  body,  and  the  fruit  of 
thy  land,  the  increase  of  thy  kine,  and  the 
flocks  of  thy  sheep.  Cursed  shalt  thou  be 
when  thou  comest  in,  and  cursed  shalt  thou 
be  when  thou  goest  out  .  .  . 

He  laid  the  Bible  down  on  his  knee  ;  really 
he  could  not  plough  through  any  more  of 
this. 

Mrs.  Raymond  was  quite  white,  and  her 
lips  had  begun  to  tremble.  The  little  girl  on 
her  knee  was  pale  too,  scared  without  know- 
ing why.  Jack's  great  eyes  had  never  stirred 
from  his  uncle's  face. 

A  kind  of  breathless  hush  had  fallen  in  the 
room.  The  doctor  picked  up  the  book 
again,  and  went  on  reading,  with  a  horrible 
sense  that  he  was  taking  part  in  an  execution. 
He  floundered  helplessly  on  and  on,  through 
the  curses  piled  one  upon  another,  to  the 
tremendous  peroration  : 

"  In  the  morning  thou  shalt  say,  Would 
God  it  were  even  !  and  at  even  thou  shalt 


JACK   RAYMOND.  139 

say,  Would  God  it  were  morning !  for  the 
fear  of  thine  heart  wherewith  thou  shalt  fear, 
and  for  the  sight  of  thine  eyes  which  thou 
shalt  see  .  .  . 

The  Vicar  rose  from  his  chair  with  a 
smothered  cry. 

The  Bible  fell  open  on  the  floor.  Jack  was 
kneeling  upright  on  the  couch,  with  one  hand 
clenched  upon  the  foot-board,  and  looking 
straight  into  his  uncle's  eyes.  Molly  began 
to  cry  suddenly. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Jack,  lying  down  again. 
"  Uncle  will  let  me  go  to  school." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ACCORDINGLY,  at  the  opening  of  the  term, 
Jack  went  to  school.  His  point  once  gained, 
he  had  been  quite  docile  about  all  minor 
questions.  Mr.  Raymond's  choice  had  fallen 
upon  a  good  middle-class  school  near  Lon- 
don ;  and  Jack,  when  told  of  the  decision, 
had  acquiesced  with  the  passivity  of  utter 
indifference.  On  the  last  morning,  when  it 
was  time  to  start  for  the  train,  the  Vicar 
called  him  into  the  study. 

"  I  think  it  right  to  tell  you,"  he  said, 
"that  in  giving  Dr.  Cross  the  necessary  par- 
ticulars, I  made  no  mention  of  what  I  have 
found  out  about  you.  If  I  had  done  so,  he 
would  certainly  have  refused  to  accept  you  ; 
and  I  have  some  doubt  whether  I  am  not 
doing  him  wrong  by  letting  him  take  you  in 
ignorance.  But  my  chief  reason  for  choosing 
his  school  is  that  I  have  heard  he  exercises  a 
close  supervision  over  the  conduct  of  his 

140 


JACK   RAYMOND.  141 

boys ;  you  will,  I  hope,  have  no  opportunity 
to  injure  your  schoolfellows.  You  start, 
therefore,  with  a  clean  record,  and  it  rests 
with  yourself  to  live  down  the  past.  But  you 
must  understand  clearly  that  this  is  the  last 
chance  I  can  give  you.  If  Dr.  Cross  sends 
you  back  to  me,  you  will  go  to  a  reformatory." 

Jack  stood  still  and  listened,  his  eyes  on 
the  floor.  As  he  did  not  speak,  the  Vicar 
added  in  a  lower  voice  : 

"  I  suppose  it  is  useless  to  appeal  to  any 
natural  feeling  of  affection  in  you,  or  I  would 
ask  you  not  to  break  your  aunt's  heart,  and 
not  to  bring  shame  on  your  sister.  But  for 
your  own  sake  I  beg  you  to  think  before  it  is 
too  late.  From  the  reformatory  to  the  con- 
vict prison  is  only  one  step." 

There  was  still  no  answer.  He  rose,  sigh- 
ing. 

"  I  had  hoped  you  would  repent  and  con- 
fess at  last.  Jack,  this  is  the  turning  point  of 
your  life  ;  have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  before 
you  go  ? " 

Jack  slowly  raised  his  eyes  from  the  floor. 

"Yes,  one  thing." 


1 42  JACK   RAYMOND. 

He  was  grave,  but  quiet  and  gentle. 
"  Whether  you  send  me  to  a^  reformatory 
or  not,  I  suppose  I  shall  live,  somehow,  and 
grow  up.  You've  got  Molly  here,  and  I  can't 
take  her  away  from  you,  because  you're 
stronger  than  I  am.  When  I'm  a  man  I  shall 
be  stronger  than  you ;  and  if  you've  been 
unkind  to  her  I  shall  come  back,  and  kill  you. 
As  for  Spotty,  she's  safe  enough  ;  I  drowned 
her  this  morning.  That's  all ;  good-bye." 

He  soon  settled  down  into  the  routine  of 
school  life,  and  plodded  through  the  first  half 
term,  making  neither  friends  nor  enemies. 
No  one  was  unkind  to  him ;  nothing  ever 
happened ;  he  was  not  even  acutely  miserable. 
"  I'm  getting  accustomed,"  he  thought,  with 
dull  self-contempt ;  a  creature  that  could 
placidly  go  on  living  after  such  violation  of 
body  and  soul  seemed  to  him  not  worth 
hating.  Probably  his  nerves  were  blunted. 

Of  the  old  wilfulness  not  a  trace  remained. 
From  the  naughtiest  boy  within  twenty  miles 
round,  he  had  changed  into  a  model  of 
docility ;  yet  he  was  as  little  liked  by  the 


JACK   RAYMOND.  143 

masters  as  by  the  boys.     His  schoolfellows, 
on  the  whole  a  very  fair  average  set  of  lads, 
had  at  first  made  friendly  advances  to  him, 
and  had  been  repulsed,  not  angrily,  but  with 
sullen  indifference.     He  no  longer  cared  at  all 
for  any  sports  or  games  ;  yet  there  was  noth- 
ing studious   about  him ;   he  performed   the 
tasks  set  him,  but  made  no  pretence  of  taking 
any   interest    in    them.     The   one    thing   for 
which   he   seemed   to   crave  was  sleep.     He 
would  have  slept,  if  it  had  been  allowed,  for 
fifteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four.     Masters 
and  boys  alike  gradually  came  to  regard  him 
as  a  dull,  apathetic  boor,  with  neither  intellect 
enough  for  scholarship   nor   energy   enough 
for   mischief.     They   thought  him  a  coward, 
too.     Before    Christmas  all    the    boys    were 
called  up  to  have  their  teeth  examined  ;  and 
Jack,  who  had  been  so  brave,  trembled  and 
turned  white  when  the  dentist  told  him  that  a 
tooth  wanted  filling. 

His  uncle  had  asked  that  arrangements 
should  be  made  for  him  to  spend  the  Christ- 
mas and  Easter  holidays  at  the  school,  and 
go  home  only  for  the  summer  vacation., 


144  JACK   RAYMOND. 

The  journey,  he  had  said  in  his  letter,  was  too 
long  to  be  worth  taking  for  short  holidays. 
Dr.  Cross,  though  somewhat  surprised  at  this 
request,  in  an  age  of  cheap  and  easy  railway 
travelling,  had  raised  no  objections ;  and  so, 
at  Christmas-time,  while  his  schoolfellows 
were  merry-making  at  their  homes,  Jack 
wandered  about  the  deserted  play-grounds, 
and  slept  alone  in  the  big,  empty  dormitory. 
It  was  at  this  time  that  he  began  to  think. 

The  process  of  thinking  was  to  him  a  labor- 
ious and  difficult  one.  His  mind  had  never 
been  trained  to  such  exercise  ;  nor  had  he  the 
external  familiarity  with  it  which  comes  of 
living  among  thoughtful  persons.  Probably 
no  member  of  the  Vicarage  household  had 
ever  thought,  individually,  at  all ;  family 
opinions  and  beliefs,  none  the  less  sincere  for 
that,  were  inherited,  like  the  family  plate,  and 
profiles,  and  virtues.  The  Raymonds  lived, 
as  other  Raymonds  had  lived  before  them, 
and  never  asked  of  Providence  :  "  Why  ?  " 
But  Jack,  left  alone,  sat  down  among  the 
ruins  of  his  shattered  childhood  and  contemp- 
lated a  tremendous  question-stop. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  145 

He  began  to  see  the  world  as  it  had  been  a 
huge  fish  pond,  where  the  big  fish  eat  the  little 
ones,  only  to  be  dragged  up  with  a  hook 
through  their  gills  and  eaten  in  their  turn  by 
a  fearsome  two-legged  monster  whose  name 
is  Death.  Seeing  that  from  this  final  dread 
there  is  no  escape,  he  judged  it  a  point  of 
wisdom  to  keep  the  eyes  turned  away  from 
that  direction,  and  to  fix  them  upon  dangers 
which  can  be  avoided. 

His  uncle  had  been  bigger  and  stronger 
than  he,  just  as  Tarquin  had  been  bigger  and 
stronger  than  Lucrece ;  that,  in  itself,  was 
sufficient  explanation  of  all  that  had  befallen 
him  last  summer.  There  was  no  ground  for 
reproach,  or  bitterness,  or  anger;  it  was  all 
quite  natural.  Like  Caliban's  god  Setebos, 
the  stronger  creature  had  done  as  pleased 
him.  For  the  weaker,  one  course  remained: 
to  harden  his  muscles  and  expand  his  chest, 
that  when  next  a  predatory  entity  should  cross 
his  path  the  balance  of  strength  might  not  be 
as  it  had  been.  Thus,  when  his  schoolfellows 
came  back  after  the  holidays,  they  found  a 
change  in  Jack ;  he  was  as  surly,  as  reserved, 


i46  JACK   RAYMOND. 

as  passively  obedient  to  authority  as  ever, 
but  he  seemed  to  be  waking  out  of  his  sleepy 
apathy,  and  now  took  an  interest  in  at  least 
one  subject :  physical  training. 

"  Boys,"  said  Dr.  Cross  on  the  first  even- 
ing, "  I  want  you  older  ones  to  keep  an  eye 
on  a  new  boy  that's  coming  to-morrow,  and 
see  he  doesn't  get  bullied.  He's  a  little 
foreigner,  a  widow's  only  son,  and  supposed 
to  be  a  bit  of  a  musical  genius.  He's  only 
eleven,  and  I  daresay  has  been  rather  coddled 
up  at  home,  especially  as  he's  not  very  strong. 
Of  course  he  must  learn  to  rough  it  now  ;  but 
let  him  down  gently,  like  good  fellows." 

Jack  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  the  head- 
master went  out.  So  the  school  was  to  be 
turned  into  a  nursery  for  cry-babies  and  pet 
lap-dogs  now. 

The  first  sight  of  the  new  boy  aroused  in 
him  a  certain  cold  and  secret  animosity.  The 
broken  English  and  the  violin  were  bad 
enough  ;  but  he  would  have  managed  to  put 
up  with  them  somehow.  What  he  could  not 
stand  was  the  child's  personal  appearance. 
The  seraphic  little  face  with  its  yellow  aureole 


JACK   RAYMOND.  147 

of  curls,  its  great,  startled,  solemn  blue  eyes, 
set  all  his  teeth  on  edge.  This  child,  appar- 
ently, had  always  had  "  mothers  and  things  " 
to  stand  between  him  and  Setebos. 

Dr.  Cross  was  popular  with  the  boys,  and 
his  wishes  were  usually  respected,  so  on  the 
whole  the  "  kid,"  as  the  new  boy  was  nick- 
named, suffered  less  persecution  than  might 
have  been  expected.  Nevertheless,  when  the 
monitors  were  out  of  sight,  a  certain  amount 
of  rather  ferocious  teasing  went  on  ;  and  the 
child's  first  weeks  at  school  were  scarcely 
happy  ones.  He  was  evidently  afraid  of  all 
the  big,  boisterous  creatures  who  alternately 
snubbed  and  patronised  him,  and  bewildered 
at  these  strange,  new  surroundings,  so  different 
from  the  esoteric  world  where  he  had  grown 
from  babyhood  among  shadows  of  his  mother's 
endless  grief  and  dim  echoes  of  far-off  trage- 
dies. For  a  month  he  drifted  between  quick- 
sands of  practical  jokes  and  whirlpools  of 
ridicule,  a  solitary  little  figure,  uncomplaining 
and  very  desolate,  clinging  tightly  to  his 
violin,  and  waiting  for  the  glorious  day  when 
his  mother  should  come  to  see  him. 


148  JACK   RAYMOND. 

She  had  arranged  to  come  once  every 
month,  this  being  the  most  she  could  afford. 
She  was  too  poor  to  travel  oftener,  and  too 
feeble  in  health  to  live  near  the  school.  She 
had  a  tiny  cottage  in  Shanklin,  and  an  income 
just  big  enough  to  live  upon  and  give  her 
child  a  good  education.  Everything  that 
she  could  save  out  of  her  personal  expendi- 
ture, or  earn  by  painting  fans  and  fire-screens, 
was  laid  aside  for  his  future. 

On  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit  Jack  hap- 
pened to  pass  through  the  hall  as  she  entered, 
and  glanced  round  carelessly  at  the  slim 
black  figure.  "  Theo  ! "  he  heard  her  call ; 
then  the  child  rushed  past  him  in  a  whirlwind 
of  tempestuous  joy,  and  he  turned  and  went 
out,  that  he  might  not  see  them  kiss.  His 
heart  was  bitter  in  him  against  this  darling 
of  the  unfair  gods,  dowered  so  richly  with 
beauty,  and  talent,  and  a  mother.  "  Molly  's 
two  years  younger  than  that  wax  doll,"  he 
thought;  "and  she's  got  to  grow  up  in  uncle's 
house,  with  no  one  to  take  her  part  but  Aunt 
Sarah." 

Two  days  afterwards  he  was  sitting  alone 


JACK   RAYMOND.  149 

in  one  of  the  playing  fields,  reading.  Several 
of  his  schoolfellows  were  at  play  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge,  and  their  shouts  and 
laughter  sounded  in  his  ears  without  arousing 
him.  The  game  they  had  chosen  was  not 
one  which  develops  the  muscles,  so  for  him  it 
had  no  interest ;  he  took  part  in  games  for 
training,  not  for  amusement. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  !"  a  piteous 
voice  cried  out  suddenly.  "And  I — I  want 
to  go  and  practise." 

Jack  looked  up.  At  a  little  distance  from 
him,  by  the  gateway  leading  from  one  field 
into  the  other,  stood  a  big  boy  named  Stubbs, 
holding  Theo  by  the  arm.  The  scared  face 
of  the  child  roused  Jack  from  his  preoccupa- 
tion. He  laid  down  his  book  and  sat  watch- 
ing. Neither  of  the  boys  had  noticed  his 
presence. 

"  Don't  be  such  a  little  fool,"  he  heard 
Stubbs  say.  "  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you  .  .  ." 

The  remaining  words  were  too  low  to  hear ; 
but  Jack  had  understood  by  the  expression  of 
the  big  boy's  face.  He  thought  of  Greaves, 
and  Thompson,  and  Robert  Polwheal ;  and 


150  JACK   RAYMOND. 

looked  on  with  cold  malevolence.  So  much 
for  a  mother's  protection  !  Surely  the  gods 
are  just  indeed,  and  mete  out  ruin  with  equal 
hands  to  loved  and  unloved  alike ;  to  this  end 
comes  innocence  too  weak  for  self-defence. 
"  You  don't  know  what  it  all  means,"  he 
thought.  "You're  clean,  and  your  mother 
comes  and  kisses  you.  Next  time  she  comes 
you  won't  be  so  clean." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Theo  cried 
out  again  ;  and,  wrenching  his  arm  free,  he 
dashed  towards  the  gate. 

"You're  wonderfully  innocent,"  Stubbs 
called  after  him,  "  for  a  jail-bird." 

Theo  stopped  short,  stared  at  him  silently 
for  a  moment,  and  burst  into  despairing  sobs. 

Jack  had  risen  and  was  standing  by  the 
hedge.  Something  leaped  out  of  darkness 
before  his  eyes :  Trevanna  glen,  and  the 
sunset,  and  the  mavis  .  .  .  Then  every- 
thing was  blurred  and  dim,  with  a  roaring 
noise  that  filled  his  ears  and  quick  lights  flash- 
ing in  a  mist ;  and  he  was  kneeling  on  the 
chest  of  something  that  gasped  and  writhed, 
and  strangling  it  with  both  hands. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  151 

His  fit  of  mad  fury  was  over  in  a  moment. 
He  found  himself  in  the  middle  of  a  crowd, 
evidently  called  in  from  the  other  field  by 
the  cries  of  Stubbs.  Three  boys  were  on  the 
ground,  and  a  fourth,  one  of  the  monitors, 
was  saying  in  a  breathless,  injured  voice : 
"  Well,  Raymond,  you  do  know  how  to  use 
your  fists,  anyway  ! " 

Jack  looked  round  him  helplessly ;  at 
Stubbs,  spluttering  and  choking  in  a  corner ; 
at  another  boy  whose  nose  was  bleeding  ;  at 
Theo,  white-faced  and  scared.  He  put  both 
hands  up  to  his  head ;  he  was  still  dizzy,  and 
felt,  somehow,  as  if  he  were  back  in  Forth- 
carrick. 

"  I'm  .  .  .  sorry,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I 
lost  my  temper.  .  ." 

He  went  slowly  away,  his  head  bent,  his 
feet  dragging  in  the  grass.  The  puzzled 
boys  looked  at  each  other. 

"  There,  stop  sniffling ! "  said  the  monitor 
sharply  to  Stubbs.  "And  you,  young 
shaver,"  he  added,  turning  to  Theo,  "  run 
after  Raymond  and  give  him  his  book;  he's 
forgotten  it." 


152  JACK   RAYMOND. 

As  Theo  ran  off  with  the  book,  the  moni- 
tor turned  back  to  Stubbs. 

"  Look  here !  Raymond  didn't  start  throt- 
tling you  for  nothing.  The  next  time  I 
catch  you  hanging  about  and  bullying  any 
of  the  little  chaps,  I'll  punch  your  head 
myself.  Now  be  off ;  we  don't  want  cads 
here." 

Stubbs  slipped  away,  meekly  enough. 
"  Dirty  little  beast ! "  muttered  the  monitor. 

After  this  incident  Jack  waked  up  to  find 
that  his  position  in  the  school  was  changed. 
He  had  been  so  indifferent  to  his  surround- 
ings that  he  only  now  saw  how  universally 
Stubbs  had  for  long  been  disliked  and  mis- 
trusted by  the  boys.  If  the  masters  heard 
anything  of  what  had  occurred,  they  kept 
silence  ;  but  Jack  began  slowly  to  realise  that 
his  unexpected  championship  of  Theo  had 
won  for  him  both  the  goodwill  of  his  school- 
fellows and  the  impassioned  adoration  of  the 
small  creature's  self. 

Theo  trotted  after  him,  indeed,  like  a  "  pet 
lap-dog,"  often  grievously  embarrassing  his 
idol  by  the  ways  in  which  his  affection  ex- 


JACK   RAYMOND.  153 

pressed  itself,  Jack  would  find  his  night- 
shirt carefully  smoothed  and  folded,  new 
laces  threaded  into  his  boots,  the  right  page 
turned  down  in  his  lesson  books,  and  early 
primroses  laid  on  his  plate  at  breakfast. 
This  last  attention,  however,  was  too  much 
for  his  patience  ;  and  he  snubbed  the  child 
so  unmercifully  that  the  monitors,  disinclined 
as  they  were  to  tolerate  friendships  between 
little  boys  and  big  ones  in  the  school, 
shrugged  their  shoulders  and  refrained  from 
interfering.  "  The  kid "  was  nothing  worse 
than  a  blithering  idiot,  they  decided,  and 
Raymond  was  quite  capable  of  putting  him 
down. 

But  Theo's  devotion  was  proof  against  a 
good  deal  of  snubbing.  "  Little  duffer ! " 
Jack  would  mutter  angrily  when  the  child's 
name  was  mentioned  ;  yet  he  submitted  in 
time,  though  with  a  very  bad  grace,  and  grad- 
ually came  to  be  regarded  as  Theo's  official 
protector  and  champion.  "You'd  better  not 
bully  the  kid,"  one  boy  would  say  to  another ; 
"or  Raymond '11  cut  your  head  open."  As 
for  Theo,  once  freed  from  persecution  and 


I54  JACK   RAYMOND. 

satisfied  as  to  the  two  prime  necessities  of  his 
nature,  a  god  for  his  worship  and  peace  for 
violin  practice,  he  flourished  and  expanded 
beyond  all  expectations,  and  even  blossomed 
out  into  the  use  of  English  slang  and  the 
possession  of  a  huge  clasp-knife,  fortunately 
too  stiff  for  his  small  fingers  to  open. 

His  letters  to  his  mother  were  filled  with 
the  praises  of  Jack.  She  could  gain  no 
definite  idea  as  to  the  cause  of  the  fight  with 
Stubbs,  for  Theo,  happily,  had  understood  too 
little  himself  to  be  able  to  explain.  On  her 
next  visit,  however,  she  obtained  from  him  an 
account,  given  in  all  innocence  without  any 
comprehension  of  its  meaning,  of  what  Stubbs 
had  said  to  him.  That  afternoon  Dr.  Cross 
came  into  the  classroom  and  said  to  Jack : 
"  Raymond,  I  want  you  to  go  downstairs ; 
Mirski's  mother  would  like  to  speak  to  you 
before  she  goes." 

Jack  obeyed,  with  a  scowling  face.  As  if 
things  were  not  bad  enough  already,  he  had 
got  to  go  and  be  jawed  at  by  the  other  fel- 
low's mother  now. 

He  found  her  sitting  alone,  her  thin  hands 


JACK    RAYMOND.  155 

folded  on  her  lap.  As  he  came  in  she  looked 
up ;  and  he  stopped  short  and  dropped  his 
eyes,  with  a  sudden  rush  of  jealous  hatred 
against  her  child.  What  right  had  Theo  to 
have  a  mother  like  that,  when  other  peo- 
ple had  nothing  ?  "  Nothing,  nothing,"  he 
repeated  to  himself  with  dolorous  insistence. 
He  had  never  realised  how  lonely  he  was 
till  he  saw  the  face  of  the  "  other  fellow's 
mother."  Her  eyes  were  like  the  deep,  still 
water  in  the  shadowy  pools  of  Trevanna  glen. 

"  Are  you  Jack  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  have  heard 
so  much  of  you  from  Theo ;  he  can  talk  of 
nothing  else." 

"  He's  a  little  idiot,"  said  Jack,  flushing 
angrily.  He  would  have  given  a  year's 
pocket  money  to  get  out  of  the  room.  He 
resented  her  presence,  though  he  could 
not  have  told  himself  why ;  the  low  voice 
with  its  foreign  accent  seemed  to  force  itself 
on  him  against  his  will,  and  make  him  think  of 
Molly,  and  the  foam  on  the  grey  rocks  by 
Deadman's  Cliff,  and  the  circling  flight  of  sea 
gulls.  She  had  no  right  to  come  in  here  and 
make  him  wretched  again,  just  when  he  was 


I56  JACK   RAYMOND. 

beginning  to  forget.  It  was  nothing  to  her; 
she'd  got  her  Theo. 

"  He  is  rather  a  baby  still,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
knows  nothing  of  the  kind  of  danger  you 
rescued  him  from.  I  could  not  go  home 
without  thanking  you." 

Jack  set  his  teeth.  How  much  more  of 
this  was  he  to  bear  ?  She  was  looking  at  him 
now  with  a  serious,  scrutinising  gaze. 

"  I  thought  at  first  of  taking  him  away ; 
but  I  have  been  talking  it  over  with  Dr. 
Cross,  and  he  suggests  that,  as  you  have  al- 
ready been  so  kind,  I  should  ask  you  to  help 
me.  Will  you  let  me  put  the  child  under 
your  care?  Dr.  Cross  will  see  that  the 
monitors  understand,  so  you  will  have  no 
difficulty ;  and  I  am  quite  sure  it  will  be  the 
best  possible  thing  for  Theo.  An  older 
schoolfellow,  especially  one  he  cares  so  much 
for,  can  protect  him  better  than  any  master 
could  do  ;  and  I  know  he  will  obey  you.  If 
you  will  take  care  of  him,  and  not  let  him  see 
or  hear  anything  unfit  for  a  little  boy  to  know 
of,  you  will  lift  a  heavy  weight  off  my  mind." 

As  she  paused  for  his  answer,  Jack  looked 


JACK   RAYMOND.  157 

up.  He  was  almost  ready  to  burst  out  laugh- 
ing at  the  brutal  joke  which  the  fates  were 
playing  at  his  expense.  He  thought  of  the 
Bishop's  knife,  and  the  photographs,  and  the 
threat  of  a  reformatory.  Then  suddenly  a 
lump  came  in  his  throat  as  his  eyes  met  hers, 
and  he  looked  down  again  at  the  floor. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  huskily ;  "  I'll  see  to  it. 
He  shan't  come  to  any  harm  while  I'm  here." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  "  Thank  you," 
she  said,  and  rose  ;  then  paused  a  moment, 
looking  at  him. 

"Theo  tells  me  that  the  boy  you  fought 
had  called  him  a  'jail-bird.'  Is  that  so  ?  " 

"Yes." 

4t  Do  you  know  why  ?  " 

Jack  hesitated.  He  had  overheard  vague 
hints  about  Theo's  father. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  I  .  .  .  don't  talk  much 
to  the  others ;  and,  anyhow,  it's  not  my 
business." 

"  Have  you  ever  read  any  Polish  history  ?" 

"  I    .    .    .    no,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Theo  must  have  said  something,  and  been 
misunderstood.  He  doesn't  remember  much 


158  JACK    RAYMOND. 

about  it ;  he  was  only  a  little  thing.  My 
husband  was  a  political  exile — do  you  know 
what  that  is? — in  Siberia.  When  he  died 
there,  I  brought  the  child  to  France.  I  have 
always  tried  to  keep  the  shadow  of  these 
things  away  from  Theo  ;  there  will  be  time 
enough  for  them  when  he  is  a  man." 

Jack  went  into  the  gymnasium,  silent  and 
very  subdued.  Helen  Mirska  and  the  things 
that  she  had  told  him  belonged  to  a  world  of 
which  he  knew  nothing.  He  understood 
only  that  she  had  talked  to  him,  and  gone 
away,  and  left  him  miserable.  She,  mean- 
while, waiting  at  the  station  for  her  train, 
asked  herself  again  and  again  :  What  is  that 
child  brooding  over  to  be  so  unhappy  ?  She 
had  seen  him  for  ten  minutes,  and  had  talked 
of  her  own  affairs  merely  ;  and  she  read  him 
as  those  with  whom  he  had  lived  all  his  life 
had  never  been  able  to  read. 

In  the  gymnasium  he  went  through  his 
dumbbell  exercises  as  conscientiously  as 
ever ;  but  for  once  he  was  not  interested  in 
them.  Theo,  standing  in  a  corner,  looked 
on,  with  wide-eyed  admiration  at  the  feats 


JACK    RAYMOND.  159 

his  idol  could  perform.  As  Jack  swung  his 
arms  backwards,  clashing  the  dumbbells 
together  behind  his  back,  the  collar  button  of 
his  gymnasium  shirt  snapped  off  under  the 
strain ;  and  when  he  stepped  back  for  a 
moment's  rest,  letting  his  arms  fall  by  his 
sides,  the  shirt  slipped  down  a  little  from  the 
left  shoulder. 

"  What  a  queer  mark  you've  got  on  your 
shoulder,  Raymond,"  said  the  boy  behind 
him.  "Is  it  a  burn?" 

He  put  out  a  hand  to  draw  the  shirt  lower, 
but  sprang  back  with  a  cry.  Jack  had  turned 
on  him,  white  to  the  lips  with  rage,  the  heavy 
dumbbell  lifted  above  his  head. 

"  I'll  kill  you  if  you  touch  me!" 

All  the  boys  stopped  in  their  exercises  and 
stared,  speechless  with  amazement.  Then 
the  master's  grave  voice  broke  in :  "  Why, 
Raymond  !  Raymond  ! " 

Some  one  took  the  dumbbells  out  of  Jack's 
hands.  He  surrendered  them  passively, 
stumbled  to  the  nearest  form,  and  sat  down. 
That  horrible  dizziness  again,  and  the  flash- 
ing lights  and  roaring  noises.  .  . 


160  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  help  it ! "  he  said. 

When  the  lesson  was  over  the  gymnasium 
master  went  to  Dr.  Cross,  and  told  him  what 
had  happened.  Jack,  summoned  to  the  head- 
master's study,  went  in,  scowling,  sullen,  pre- 
pared for  the  worst. 

"  Raymond,  my  lad,  Mirski's  mother  tells 
me  you  have  undertaken  to  look  after  him 
and  keep  him  out  of  mischief,"  said  Dr. 
Cross.  "  I  told  her  I  was  sure  the  little  chap 
couldn't  be  in  better  hands.  You've  done 
him  a  lot  of  good  already ;  I've  just  been  talk- 
ing about  it  with  the  monitors.  You're  a 
good  fellow,  if  you  could  control  your  temper. 
By  the  way,  if  you  should  happen  to  have 
any  little  differences  with  the  others,  nobody 
will  mind  your  settling  them  with  your  fists  in 
the  old-fashioned  manner,  provided  you  don't 
go  too  far  ;  but  you'd  better  not  threaten 
your  schoolfellows  with  iron  weights  another 
time ;  it  isn't  an  English  way  of  going  to 
work." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  Jack  submissively. 

In  the  corridor  a  little  hand  stole  into  his. 
"Jack,"    Theo    whispered,    looking   up   with 


JACK   RAYMOND.  161 

soft  eyes  like  his  mother's,  "is  anything 
wrong  with  you  ?  You're  all  shaking." 

Jack  stood  still,  feeling  the  small  consoling 
fingers  curl  round  his.  Presently  he  pulled 
his  hand  roughly  away. 

"  What  should  be  wrong  with  me  ? 
There'd  be  nothing  wrong,  if  people  would 
only  let  me  alone." 

He  shoved  past  the  child  and  went  about 
for  the  rest  of  the  day  with  a  hard  face,  surly 
and  defiant.  But  late  into  the  night,  when 
masters  and  boys  were  asleep,  he  lay  and 
brooded  silently,  hopelessly,  for  hours.  He 
had  thought  he  was  growing  accustomed  and 
beginning  to  forget ;  and  it  was  no  use ; 
after  all  these  months  he  was  as  wretched  as 
ever.  Perhaps  he  should  go  on  all  his  life, 
and  never  get  accustomed.  Why  not  ?  The 
scars  would  never  go  away ;  why  should  the 
memory  ? 

•  •  •  •  • 

It  was  some  little  time  before  the  pallor 
of  sleepless  nights  began  to  show  through 
Jack's  swarthy  skin.  He  was  so  superbly 
healthy,  so  strong  and  sturdy,  that  even  if  he 


1 62  JACK    RAYMOND. 

had  fallen  bodily  ill  he  would  have  shown  it 
less  than  most  boys.  But  he  was  not  ill ; 
there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  him  but 
sheer  misery.  Only  as  the  weeks  dragged  by 
he  grew  more  colourless  and  haggard,  and 
the  look  that  he  had  worn  last  August  came 
slowly  back  into  his  eyes.  At  last  the  head- 
master began  to  get  anxious,  and  took  him 
to  a  doctor,  who  looked  at  him  in  a  keen, 
puzzled  way,  and  presently  asked :  "  Have 
you  been  upset  about  anything  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Jack,  with  his  stolid  face. 

The  doctor  finally  declared  him  to  be  "  a 
little  below  par,"  and  prescribed  a  tonic, 
which  of  course  did  no  good.  "  I  wonder 
what's  the  matter  with  that  boy  Raymond," 
said  Dr.  Cross  to  the  mathematical  master. 
"  Do  you  think  he's  moping?" 

"  Hardly;  he  seems  too  stolid  a  creature  to 
mope  much.  But  one  never  can  tell  ;  per- 
haps he's  a  bit  homesick." 

Jack,  meanwhile,  trod  nightly  dumb  and 
barefoot  through  hell-fire. 

The  days  were  not  so  bad  ;  there  were 
always  lessons  and  games,  and  the  presence 


JACK   RAYMOND.  163 

of  his  schoolfellows.  He  took  no  interest  in 
any  of  these  distractions  ;  but  they  filled  up 
time  and  space  and  kept  other  things  away. 
Yet  sometimes,  even  in  the  middle  of  cricket 
or  football,  the  thought  of  the  coming  night 
would  strike  at  his  heart.  At  evening,  when 
the  boys  trooped  up  to  the  dormitory,  he 
would  tumble  into  bed  with  a  wooden  face 
and  a  sullen  "good-night,"  and  lie  breathing 
evenly  with  the  counterpane  drawn  up  over 
his  head,  while  the  others  undressed.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  must  go  mad  if  he 
should  see  the  white,  smooth,  unscarred 
shoulders  of  all  these  happy  creatures.  They 
used  to  call  him  "  The  dormouse " ;  it  had 
become  a  standing  joke  among  them  that  he 
was  always  the  first  to  sleep  and  the  last  to 
wake.  Then,  when  the  lights  were  out  and 
the  whispering  between  the  beds  had  stopped, 
he  would  sit  up  alone,  and  fight  with  demons 
in  the  dark,  helpless  against  a  ghostly  army, 
and  crush  the  sheet  over  his  mouth,  and 
learn  to  sob  quietly,  that  the  others  might 
not  hear. 

It  struck  upon  him  at  times  with  a  sense  of 


1 64  JACK   RAYMOND. 

amazement  that  misery  could  wear  so  many 
faces,  and  that  one  could  know  them  all,  and 
yet  not  die.  There  were  nights  of  fear, 
when  the  furies  sat  beside  his  bed.  He 
would  fall  asleep  quietly,  like  every  one  else, 
to  wake,  quivering,  from  nightmares  oi 
Porthcarrick,  his  teeth  knocking  together  and 
damp  skin  drawn  up  beneath  the  roots  of  his 
hair.  There  were  nights  of  rage,  when  he 
would  clench  his  hands  and  grit  his  teeth 
with  hatred  of  the  God,  Whoever  He  might 
be,  Who  had  made  the  world  so  unjust  and 
the  people  in  it  so  wretched.  There  were 
nights  of  despair,  when  he  could  only  sob 
and  sob  for  very  desolation,  till  his  head 
ached  and  his  eyes  burned  and  the  struggle 
to  breathe  seemed  to  tear  his  throat  in  pieces. 
There  were  nights  of  loathing  and  horror, 
when  hideous  imaginations  pursued  him  and 
the  photographs  glared  out  of  the  darkness 
whichever  way  he  turned.  But  the  worst 
were  the  nights  of  shame. 

Of  all  torments  the  keenest  was  to  see  his 
schoolfellows  asleep.  By  day  he  now  envied, 
now  despised  them  ;  by  night  he  was  ashamed 


JACK    RAYMOND.  165 

before  them.  He  would  sit  on  the  edge  of  his 
bed,  watching  the  long  still  rows  of  placid 
figures,  listening  to  the  sound  of  their  breath- 
ing. Sometimes  one  would  turn  over  with  a 
sigh,  or  another  would  fling  a  bare  arm  out 
upon  the  coverlet ;  and  to  the  desolate  on- 
looker the  sight  was  as  the  stab  of  a  knife. 
They  seemed  to  him  so  beautiful,  so  intoler- 
ably white  and  clean  ;  what  place  had  he 
among  them  ?  They  had  no  evil  dreams,  no 
secret  horrors,  no  shameful  scars  to  hide ; 
they  had  not  been  dragged  through  the  by- 
ways of  hell  or  polluted  with  the  knowledge 
of  a  man's  damnation  .  .  .  Then  he  would 
lie  down  and  hide  his  face  against  the  pillow, 
and  tell  himself  that  he  must  get  accustomed  ; 
that  what  is  done  is  done  ;  that  his  body  had 
been  utterly  defiled  ;  that  he  should  never  be 
clean  again. 

The  Easter  holidays  were  close  at  hand,  and 
a  flutter  of  excitement  had  begun  in  the 
school.  To  Jack  the  prospect  of  solitude  and 
silence  was  now  a  relief,  now  an  added  terror. 
Suddenly  it  flashed  upon  him  that  only  four 
months  remained  till  the  long  summer  vaca- 


1 66  JACK   RAYMOND. 

tion  ;  and  that  then  he  should  have  to  go 
home.  Somehow,  he  had  never  thought  of 
that  before. 

Now  this  new  dread  took  possession  of  him 
so  wholly  that  all  lesser  griefs  were  driven  out. 
Fear  walked  behind  him  all  day  long,  and 
caught  him  by  the  throat  when  night  came  on. 
"  Four  months,"  he  would  repeat  to  himself  ; 
"  four  months  ! "  four  months  to  decide  in,  to 
make  up  his  mind,  to  think  of  a  plan.  He 
must  run  away,  drown  himself,  escape  some- 
how— anyhow.  To  go  back  to  Porthcarrick 
would  drive  him  mad. 

"  Raymond,"  said  Dr.  Cross,  on  the  last 
Monday  of  the  term,  "  you  remember  it 
was  arranged  that  you  should  spend  Easter 
here  ?  I  find  now  that  it  can't  be  managed, 
because  of  the  spring  cleaning  ;  so  I  wrote  to 
ask  your  uncle  if  he  could  make  it  convenient 
to  have  you  home,  and  he  wires  that  he'll  ex- 
pect you  next  Saturday.  I'm  glad,  for  I  think 
a  scamper  on  the  moors  will  do  you  good." 

The  spring  cleaning  difficulty  was  a  kindly 
fiction,  Dr.  Cross  having  decided  that  the  boy 
must  be  homesick. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  167 

Jack  went  out  into  the  playing  fields  with  a 
face  of  stone.  His  four  months'  grace  had 
vanished,  and  he  must  decide  now  what  he 
would  do.  He  walked  straight  before  him, 
thinking,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

He  might  run  away.  But  there  was  the 
risk  of  being  caught  and  taken  home  by  force. 
Also,  to  run  away,  when  one  has  no  money 
and  no  friend  to  go  to,  would  mean  a  lot  of 
thinking,  and  planning,  and  arranging ;  and 
he  was  too  tired.  There  was  a  way  of  escape 
that  was  quite  safe  and  simple,  and  one  could 
take  it  without  any  trouble. 

He  walked  down  to  the  pond  in  the  hollow 
of  the  furthest  field.  The  deep  water  lay  still 
and  black,  bordered  by  trails  of  leafless 
bramble  and  sodden  wrecks  of  last  year's 
rushes.  He  threw  a  stone  into  the  middle  of 
the  pond,  and  watched  till  the  slow  ripples 
died  away  ;  then  crept  along  an  overhanging 
tree  trunk,  and  looked  down  into  the  water. 
Yes,  it  would  be  quite  easy. 

Then  in  one  instant  the  fear  of  death  took 
hold  upon  him.  He  shut  his  eyes,  that  he 
might  not  see  the  water,  and  clung  with  both 


1 68  JACK   RAYMOND. 

hands  to  the  tree  trunk.  "  I  can't  ! "  he 
pleaded  with  the  thing  that  seemed  to  be 
behind  him,  driving  him  into  the  pond.  "  Oh, 
I  can't !  I  can't !  I  can't !  " 

He  reached  solid  ground  again,  and  opened 
his  eyes.  If  he  had  only  been  brave  for  one 
minute,  it  would  have  been  all  over  by  now ; 
but  he  was  a  coward.  All  degraded  creatures 
are  cowards ;  he  remembered  reading  that 
somewhere.  He  was  not  brave  enough  to 
drown  himself,  or  to  run  away ;  so  he  must 
submit,  as  cowards  always  have  to  do.  He 
must  go  back  to  Porthcarrick,  and  see  the 
wood-shed,  and  his  uncle's  face,  and  the  stair- 
case which  they  had  gone  up  together.  He 
would  be  put  to  sleep  in  that  same  room  ;  to 
pass  interminable  nights  alone  there  ;  and  to 
see  the  day  dawn  and  the  sun  arise  and  shame 
him,  shining  in  upon  the  place  where  he  had 
been  tied  up  like  a  dog  .  .  . 

"  Why,  Raymond,   what's  the   matter  with 
you,  boy?" 

Jack  put  out  both  hands  in  the  direction 
of  the  voice. 

"  I  feel  sick." 


JACK   RAYMOND.  169 

Dr.  Cross  took  him  by  the  arm.  "  Come 
indoors,"  he  said;  "you'd  better  lie  down." 

The  dormitory  was  quiet  and  airy.  Jack 
lay  down  on  his  bed,  and  the  head-master 
brought  him  a  glass  of  water. 

"  Let  me  look  at  your  tongue.  No,  that's 
all  right ;  and  you're  not  feverish  .  .  . 

"  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me ;  I 
only  got  a  bit  giddy." 

Dr.  Cross  stood  looking  down  at  him  for  a 
little  while. 

"  I  wonder  whether  you've  been  feeling 
rather  lonely,  perhaps,  as  you  hadn't  been 
away  from  home  before  ?  I  remember  when 
I  was  a  youngster  I  didn't  like  it  at 
first." 

Jack  clenched  his  teeth.  Oh,  if  they  would 
leave  him  alone,  all  these  people !  What 
was  it  to  them  ?  He  was  not  going  to  make  a 
fuss ;  he  never  made  a  fuss  about  things.  He 
would  manage  to  bear  it  somehow,  if  they'd 
only  let  him  alone. 

"  You'll  be  all  right  next  term,"  said  Dr. 
Cross.  "  Perhaps  you  feel  rather  a  stranger 
here  still,  but  you'll  soon  get  used  to  it." 


i7o  JACK   RAYMOND. 

It  was  a  little  time  before  Jack  unclenched 
his  teeth. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  ;  "  I  shall  get  used  to  it." 

The  class  bell  rang,  and  Jack  lifted  his  head 
from  the  pillow.  Dr.  Cross  gently  pushed 
him  down  again. 

"  No,  you'd  better  lie  still  for  a  bit,  and  go 
to  sleep." 

The  door  shut  behind  him  at  last.  Jack 
put  up  his  left  hand,  and  bit  it  till  tears 
started  under  his  closed  eyelids ;  then  he 
pressed  it  down  over  his  eyes,  trying  to  make 
shapes  and  colours  come,  and  shut  out  other 
images.  The  marks  of  his  teeth  showed  in 
livid  crescents  on  the  brown  skin. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"RAYMOND  !"  cried  Theo,  bursting  into  the 
form  room.  "  Mother's  come  ! " 

Jack's  head  went  down  over  the  algebra 
book. 

"  Hold  your  noise,  you  little  donkey ! 
Can't  you  see  I'm  doing  lessons?" 

"  Well,  you  needn't  be  so  beastly  sulky,  if 
you  are!"  Theo  was  making  rapid  progress 
in  English,  and  his  unfamiliar  elegance  of 
speech  had  vanished  with  his  golden  curls. 
"  I  only  came  to  say  that  mother  wants  you." 

"Oh,  damn  !"  said  Jack,  flinging  down  his 
book. 

He  went  into  the  other  room  with  his 
made-up  face,  indifferent  and  morose. 
Helen's  deep,  compassionate  eyes  looked  him 
over  gravely  as  he  entered. 

"  Jack,"  she  said,  "  Theo  and  I  want  you 
to  spend  your  Easter  holidays  with  us  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight.  Will  you?" 


172  JACK   RAYMOND. 

He  drew  back  a  step,  raised  his  eyes  slowly 
and  looked  at  her.  Oh,  it  was  no  use  to  play 
a  part ;  it  might  deceive  every  one  else,  but 
not  her ;  she  had  read  all  his  secrets  from  the 
first. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  for  ?  " 

She  smiled. 

"  Well,  chiefly  because  we  like  you." 

"  Oh,  do  come  ! "  Theo  put  in.  "  You  can 
teach  me  to  row,*and " 

"What  do  you  want  me  for?"  Jack  re- 
peated doggedly.  He  had  come  a  little 
nearer,  looking  straight  into  her  face.  An 
insane  desire  to  laugh  was  taking  possession 
of  him.  Suppose  she  were  ever  to  come 
across  his  uncle,  or  Mr.  Hewitt,  or  Dr. 
Jenkins,  and  to  hear  what  had  happened  last 
summer  ?  Suppose  he  were  to  tell  her  him- 
self, and  let  her  choose  whether  she  would 
invite  him  then  or  not?  A  kind  of  horrible 
internal  mirth  shook  him  at  the  thought  of 
how  she  would  snatch  up  her  darling  and  flee. 
He  had  already  learned  that  there  are  some 
things,  to  be  accused  of  which  is  enough ; 
nobody  wants  to  hear  about  your  innocence. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  173 

She  came  up  to  him,  and  put  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  Well,  he  was  behaving  like 
a  sneaking  cad,  of  course,  and  sailing  under 
false  colours ;  but  it  would  save  him  from 
Porthcarrick.  And  if  he  was  such  a  beastly 
coward  that  he  couldn't  save  himself  the 
other  way  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'll  come  fast  enough,"  he  said ; 
"  if  uncle  will  let  me." 

Helen  stayed  at  the  village  inn  till  break- 
ing-up  day,  and  every  time  that  Jack  saw  her 
the  soft  and  pitying  eyes  seemed  to  shame 
him,  "  like  a  scat  in  the  face,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. But  who  was  he  that  he  should  care  for 
any  blow  across  the  cheek  now,  if  it  was  not 
hard  enough  to  hurt?  He  lived  in  hourly 
terror  lest  the  Vicar  should  deem  it  necessary 
to  forbid  his  accepting  the  invitation,  and  to 
explain  to  Dr.  Cross  the  reason.  But  Mr. 
Raymond  made  no  difficulties ;  he  was  thank- 
ful for  any  offer  which  would  spare  him  his 
nephew's  contaminating  presence  at  Porth- 
carrick. He  satisfied  his  conscience  by 
writing  a  long  letter  to  the  boy,  solemnly 
exhorting  him  not  to  abuse  the  kindness  of 


i74  JACK   RAYMOND. 

his  new  friends.  Jack  read  it  through,  tossed 
it  into  the  fire  and  started  for  Southampton 
with  Helen  and  Theo,  saying  to  himself  in  cold 
disgust:  "The  filthy  cad  !  He  believes  I'm 
all  that,  and  he  lets  me  go  !  And  I'm  no  better." 

All  the  way  to  Shanklin  he  kept  assur- 
ing himself  that  he  was  going  to  enjoy  to  the 
full  whatever  pleasures  the  gods  might  grant, 
and  put  off  thinking  of  anything  else  till  the 
end  of  the  holidays.  He  was  safe  for  four 
months  now,  and  could  afford  three  weeks' 
happiness,  surely.  Other  people  were  happy 
for  years  and  years.  For  the  first  few  days 
he  wearied  the  household  with  his  riotous 
high  spirits ;  then,  returning  from  the  shore 
one  afternoon  and  entering  the  little  garden, 
he  came  upon  Theo  lying  on  the  grass  under 
the  big  laburnum  tree,  reading  aloud  to  his 
mother,  his  head  resting  on  her  knee.  She 
had  one  arm  round  the  child's  neck,  and  her 
other  hand  played  with  his  hair  as  she 
listened.  That  night  Jack  lay  and  sobbed 
till  he  was  sick  and  dizzy.  Oh,  it  was  un- 
fair, unfair,  unfair  ! 

In  the  second  week  a  new  visitor  arrived,  a 


* 
JACK    RAYMOND.  175 

grey-headed  man  who  called  Helen  by  her 
Christian  name,  and  whom  Theo  addressed 
as  "  Uncle  Conrad."  He  proved  to  be  not 
a  relative,  but  an  old  and  close  friend  of 
Helen's  family,  and  a  former  fellow-prisoner 
of  her  husband.  After  spending  several 
years  in  a  Russian  fortress  on  a  general 
charge  of  seditious  opinions,  he  had  settled 
in  Paris,  where  he  was  now  a  well-known  and 
successful  musical  critic.  He  examined  Theo 
severely  in  harmony,  and  found  so  many 
faults  in  his  violin  playing  that  the  child, 
when  finally  released,  dashed  into  the  garden, 
where  Jack  found  him  in  tears. 

"It's  all  a  sham!"  he  wailed.  "Those 
English  music  masters  are.  duffers — they  don't 
know  anything  about  it.  They  said  I  was 
getting  on  nicely,  and  Uncle  Conrad  has 
done  nothing  but  grumble  !  I  hold  my  bow 
too  tight,  and  I  slur  the  phrasing,  and  I  can't 
play  a  bit  !  " 

"  Perhaps  it's  he  that's  a  duffer,"  Jack  sug- 
gested, racking  his  brains  for  consolation  to 
give.  Theo  sat  bolt  upright,  scandalised  at 
such  a  heresy. 


176  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"Jack!  Uncle  Conrad  is  always  right 
about  music.  And  it's  true,  I  know  it  is  ;  I 
played  hatefully  to-day.  I  shall  be  just  an 
amateur  ;  I  shall  never  play  like  Joachim — 
never,  never ! " 

His  distress  was  so  passionate  that  Jack 
finally  ran  up  the  verandah  steps  to  call 
Helen,  as  his  own  attempts  at  consolation 
had  no  effect.  The  glass  door  leading  into 
the  sitting-room  was  open,  and  as  he  came  up 
to  it  he  saw  Helen  and  Conrad  in  the  room, 
talking  earnestly  together  in  their  native  lan- 
guage. He  could  not  understand  the  words 
they  said,  but  drew  back  instinctively,  seeing 
the  look  on  her  face. 

"  Helen,"  the  old  man  was  saying,  "it  is  a 
vocation,  like  the  other.  Who  shall  say  it  is 

* 

less  holy  ?  I  would  not  speak  till  I  was 
quite  sure ;  last  year  I  only  told  you  the  child 
had  talent.  I  tell  you  now  that  he  has 
genius." 

"  If    it    is    his    vocation,"    she    answered 
slowly,    "  he    must    follow    it,    and    there    is 
nothing  more  to  say.     I  had  hoped   .    .    . 
She    raised   her   eyes    suddenly  to  a  picture 


JACK   RAYMOND.  177 

hanging  on  the  wall.  Jack  had  often  looked 
at  it  and  wondered  what  it  meant.  It  was  a 
large  photograph  of  a  group  of  statuary,  rep- 
resenting a  colossal  seated  figure  of  a  woman, 
with  torn  garments  and  chained  hands, 
and  with  dead  and  dying  men  about  her 
feet. 

"God  help  me!"  Helen  said,  and  covered 
her  face. 

Jack  slipped  out  silently.  He  had  under- 
stood nothing  beyond  the  bare  fact  that  she 
was  unhappy ;  but  over  this  he  pondered 
gravely,  never  having  realised  before  that 
any  one  else  in  the  world  except  himself  could 
have  a  secret  grief. 

Before  returning  to  Paris  Conrad  put 
Theo  through  a  minute  examination,  testing 
his  ear  in  various  ways.  On  the  last  after- 
noon of  his  visit,  when  they  were  all  sitting 
on  the  garden  lawn,  he  called  the  child's 
attention  to  the  peculiar  intervals  in  the 
songs  of  certain  birds. 

"  Remember,  Theo,  you  don't  stop  learn- 
ing music  when  you  put  down  your  instru- 
ment and  go  for  a  walk  ;  every  bird  has  got 


178  JACK   RAYMOND. 

something  to  teach  you.     The  best  teacher  I 
ever  had  was  my  pet  sky-lark." 

"Why,  Conrad,"  said  Helen;  "you  didn't 
keep  a  sky-lark  in  a  cage,  surely  ! " 

He  laughed.  "  We  were  both  in  the  same 
cage.  It  was  in  the  prison  in  Moscow ;  I 
picked  the  bird  up  in  the  court-yard  with  a 
broken  wing,  and  they  let  me  keep  it  in  my 
cell.  It  got  nearly  tame  by  the  time  the  wing 
was  cured." 

"And  did  it  stay  with  you  afterwards?" 
Theo  asked. 

"  No,  it  flew  away, — lucky  little  mortal  !  " 

Jack,  apparently,  was  not  listening ;  he  was 
cutting  his  name,  after  the  manner  of  boys, 
on  the  trunk  of  the  laburnum  tree.     He  left  it 
half  cut  and  swung  himself  off  the  bench  in  , 
his  lumpy,  coltish  fashion. 

"  I'm  going  to  look  at  the  rabbits." 

He  slouched  away  across  the  lawn  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  whistling  shrilly  between 
his  teeth  :  "  Said  the  young  Obadiah  to  the 
old  Obadiah  .  .  .  He  had  been  distress- 
ingly addicted  to  comic  songs  of  late,  though  he 
never  could  get  the  tunes  right,  having  no  ear. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  179 

"Jack!"  Theo  cried,  trotting  after  him; 
"you're  out  of  tune  ;  it's  F  sharp  !  " 

"  Rather  a  loutish  sort  of  lad  for  Theo  to 
be  so  fond  of,  isn't  he  ?  "  said  Conrad,  when 
the  boys  were  out  of  hearing. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  Helen  answered  absently. 

Theo  came  running  back. 

"  Mummy,  Jack's  as  cross  as  two  sticks." 

"  Is  he  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  wanted  to  look  at  the  rabbits  with 
him,  and  he  told  me  to  go  and  be  damned." 

"  Don't  tell  tales,"  said  Conrad. 

Helen  had  risen  with  an  anxious  face. 

"  Where  has  he  gone  ?  " 

44  Into  the  house.  You'd  better  let  him 
alone  a  bit,  mummy ;  he  gets  sulky  fits  at 
school  now  and  then.  He'll  be  all  right 
soon." 

"  Take  Uncle  Conrad  to  see  the  rabbits," 
was  all  Helen  said. 

She  went  into  the  house  and  up  to  the  door 
of  Jack's  room.  There  she  paused  a  moment, 
listening.  From  within  came  a  stifled  sound 
which  she  had  sometimes  heard  at  night.  She 
opened  the  door  softly  and  went  in. 


i8o  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Jack  was  lying  face  downwards  on  his  bed, 
with  both  hands  clenched  into  the  pillow, 
sobbing  under  his  breath  in  a  horrible,  sup- 
pressed, unchildlike  way.  She  came  up  to 
him  and  laid  a  hand  on  his. 

"Jack,  what  is  it?" 

He  neither  started  nor  oried  out  ;  only 
shrank  a  little  away  and  held  his  breath, 
trembling.  Presently  he  lifted  himself  up, 
and  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  quite  tearless 
and  dry. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing." 

She  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  put  her  arms 
round  him. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  ?  I  know  you  often 
lie  awake  half  the  night ;  I  can  hear  every 
sound  from  my  room,  you  know." 

Jack  bit  his  lip. 

"  It's  nothing  partic'lar,  thanks  !  I've  been 
a  bit  upset ;  and  Theo's  such  a  blasted  little 
donkey,  he  can't  let  a  fellow  alone." 

"  Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  ?  It's  horrible 
to  have  a  secret  trouble  at  your  age.  If  you 
can't  trust  me,  is  there  no  one  you  can  trust  ?" 

"There's  nothing  to  tell.     It's  only  some- 


JACK    RAYMOND.  181 

thing  that  happened  .  .  .  before  I  went  to 
school." 

"  Last  year  ?  And  don't  your  people  know 
of  it?" 

Jack  began  to  laugh.  "  All  Porthcarrick 
knows ;  that's  why  they  let  me  go  to  school." 

She  drew  him  closer  into  her  arms. 
"Won't  you  tell  me?" 

He  looked  away  from  her,  breathing 
quickly.  "  Ask  old  Jenkins,"  he  said  at  last, 
huskily  ;  "  he'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"Who  is  Jenkins?" 

"The  new  doctor,  down  to  Porthcarrick. 
He  and  Dr.  Williams  both  came  when  I 
smashed  my  arm,  and  he  tried  to  come  the 
soft  dodge  over  me,  just  like  you.  I  told  him 
he'd  better  get  me  away  from  there  instead  of 
talking  all  that  tommy-rot  about  being  sorry 
for  me ;  he  wasn't  sorry  enough  to  help  me." 

Helen  thought  for  a  moment,  silently. 

"  Would  you  let  me  write  to  Dr.  Jenkins 
and  ask  him  to  tell  me  about  it  ?  You  see, 
I  can't  help  caring,  when  you've  been  so  good 
to  my  Theo." 

Jack  pulled  himself  away  with  a  jerk  and 


i8a  JACK   RAYMOND. 

walked  over  to  the  window.  He  turned 
round  after  a  minute,  his  eyebrows  dragged 
down  in  the  ugliest  scowl  she  had  ever  seen 
him  wear.  He  was  rather  white  about  tht 
lips. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  You  can  write  to 
him  :  Dr.  Jenkins,  Cliff  Cottage,  Porthcarrick. 
Tell  him  I  said  he  can  tell  you  what  he 
knows  about  me.  P'raps  you  won't  be  in 
such  a  hurry  to  have  me  good  to  Theo  then. 
I  don't  care." 

He  stuck  his  hands  into  his  pockets  again 
and  stumped  down  the  stairs,  whistling,  out 
of  tune  as  usual :  "  Said  the  young  Oba- 
diah  .  .  ." 

Neither  he  nor  Helen  referred  to  the  sub. 
ject  any  more.  She  wrote  to  Dr.  Jenkins, 
explaining  how  matters  stood,  and  begging 
him  to  tell  her  what  he  could.  On  the  last 
day  of  the  holidays  a  fat  letter  came  from 
Porthcarrick  in  reply.  She  slipped  it  into 
her  pocket,  that  Jack  might  not  see  the  post- 
mark, and  after  breakfast  carried  it  to  her 
room.  Dr.  Jenkins  wrote,  in  detail,  all  that 
he  knew  of  Jack's  history ;  as  much,  that  is,  as 


JACK   RAYMOND.  183 

his  own  eyes  had  shown  him,  together  with 
what  he  had  heard  from  the  Vicar,  the  school- 
master, and  Mrs.  Raymond. 

The  letter  ended  with  a  grave  warning  as 
to  the  dangers  to  which  an  intimacy  with 
Jack  was  presumably  exposing  Theo.  "  In 
my  capacity  as  the  boy's  medical  attendant," 
the  doctor  added,  "  I  made  every  effort  to 
win  his  confidence  ;  but  entirely  without  suc- 
cess. His  disposition  appeared  to  me 
peculiarly  sullen,  stubborn,  vindictive,  and 
secret ;  indeed,  before  this  unhappy  business 
came  to  light,  he  had  already,  though  barely 
fourteen,  gained  an  exceedingly  bad  name  in 
the  whole  country  round.  Far  from  regard- 
ing this  fact,  however,  as  in  any  way  excusing 
Mr.  Raymond's  conduct,  I  believe  the  mis- 
chief to  have  been  from  the  beginning  largely 
caused  by  his  systematic  brutality ;  and  am 
inclined  to  lay  the  guilt  of  the  boy's  moral 
ruin  at  his  door.  I  may  be  doing  him  wrong, 
but  I  have  always  doubted  whether  he  was 
really  innocent  about  the  broken  arm." 

Helen  read  the  letter  over  and  over  again  ; 
she  had  sent  the  boys  out  for  a  long  ramble 


1 84  JACK   RAYMOND. 

in  the  fields,  and  was  free  to  think  undis- 
turbed. Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  tea  was 
finished  and  Theo  was  practising  violin  exer- 
cises in  the  breakfast  room,  she  went  to  look 
for  Jack,  but  he  was  not  in  the  house.  She 
returned  to  the  tiny  parlour,  and  stepped  out 
on  to  the  verandah.  A  sound  of  hammering 
came  from  the  garden ;  and,  looking  down, 
she  saw  Jack  mending  the  roof  of  the  sum- 
mer house.  She  watched  him  for  a  little 
while,  noticing  his  absorption  in  the  work 
and  the  masterly  handling  of  his  tools.  Cer- 
tainly he  had  a  natural  turn  for  carpentering. 

"Jack !"  she  called  at  last. 

He  looked  round. 

"What?" 

"Will  you  come  in  here  a  minute  ?" 

"  S'pose  I  must,"  he  muttered  crossly, 
jumping  to  the  ground  with  a  splendid  spring. 
His  manners  might  be  defective,  but  his 
muscular  development  was  admirable. 

He  ran  up  the  verandah  steps  and  into  the 
room,  an  uncouth  barbarian  cub,  slamming 
the  glass  door  noisily,  stamping  marks  of 
muddy  boot-heels  into  the  carpet. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  185 

"  What's  up  ?  " 

"  Sit  down  a  minute  ;  I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Jdck,  sitting  down  ungra- 
ciously on  the  edge  of  a  chair.  "  I  thought 
you  wanted  something  done." 

Helen  looked  into  the  fire  for  a  moment 
before  she  spoke  ;  and  Jack,  hunched  up 
sulkily,  with  an  ugly  scowl  on  his  face, 
drummed  with  his  boot-heels  the  eternal 
refrain  of  :  "  Said  the  young  Obadiah  to  the 
old  Obadiah  ..." 

"  You  remember,"  she  began  with  her  eyes 
on  the  red  coals,  "  telling  me  I  might  write 
to  Dr.  Jenkins?" 

Jack  stiffened  all  over  and  sat  up  straight. 
The  drumming  of  his  heels  had  stopped. 

"  Well,  I  wrote ;  and  I  had  an  answer  this 
morning." 

He  drew  in  his  breath  so  sharply  that  the 
sound  was  like  a  cry.  She  kept  her  head 
turned  away. 

"  He  has  told  me  all  he  knows." 

A  little  pause  followed,  punctuated  by  the 
sound  of  quick  breathing. 


1 86  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  Where's  the  letter  ?  " 

"It's  here;  but  I  would  rather  you  didn't 
read  it." 

He  rose  and  came  up  tocher. 

"  Give  me  the  letter." 

She  looked  round.  His  eyes  were  black 
a-nd  gleaming,  as  his  uncle  had  seen  them  in 
the  wood-shed. 

"Give  me  the  letter." 

"  My  child,  I  will  give  it  to  you  if  you 
insist ;  but  I  would  very  much  rather  not. 
And  besides,  there  is  no  need ;  you  know 
everything  in  it  already." 

"  Give  me  the  letter." 

She  handed  it  to  him  silently.  He  took  it 
away  to  the  window,  sat  down  aad  read  it 
through.  Helen  watched  his  face ;  it  was 
pinched  and  grey,  and  lines  came  about  the 
mouth  which  made  her  think  of  the  change- 
lings in  the  fairy  tales,  old  haggard  children 
who  can  never  be  made  young  again. 

He  brought  the  letter  back  at  last  and  laid 
it  on  the  table. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what's  the  next 
move  ?  " 


JACK   RAYMOND.  187 

She  made  no  answer.  He  came  a  step 
nearer,  quivering. 

"  Have  you  got  all  you  wanted  ?  I  don't 
go  poking  about  asking  people  your  private 
affairs.  Jenkins  is  a  dirty  little  sneak  to  tell 
you." 

His  eyes  were  like  hot  coals. 

"  I  told  you  you  wouldn't  want  me  hanging 
round  your  precious  little  molly-coddle,  spoil- 
ing his  innocence  .  .  .  You  know  all  about 
it  now;  you  know  I  was  caught  gambling, 
and  lying,  and  trading  in  all  sorts  of  beastli- 
ness,, and  teaching  the  little  chaps  everything 
that's  filthy,  and  was  pretty  near  killed  for  it ; 
and  a  good  job  if  I'd  died  altogether  !  Any- 
thing else  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

She  rose  and  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Only  one  thing  more,  my  child  :  Has  any 
one  ever  treated  you  as  a  human  creature,  and 
believed  your  word — ever  in  all  your  life  ?  " 

He  wrenched  himself  away  from  the  hand, 
and  faced  her,  white  and  panting. 

"  D'you  mean  .    .  .  you'd  believe  it.  .  .  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  even  asked  you  for  your 
word." 


1 88  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Jack  had  still  not  understood.  He  put  up 
a  hand,  and  the  fingers  shook  against  his 
throat. 

"  S'pose  I  told  you  ...  it  was  all  a  lie 
.  .  .  from  beginning  to  end  ?  S'pose  I  told 
you  I  ...  didn't  confess  .  .  .  because 
there  .  .  .  was  nothing  to  confess  .  .  . 
because  .  .  . 

She  caught  him  suddenly  in  her  arms. 

"  My  dear,  there  is  no  need  to  tell  me  that ; 
of  course  I  knew  !  " 

Jack  was  sobbing  now,  in  the  slow,  tearless, 
frightful  way  that  was  like  the  weeping  of 
a  grown  man. 

When  they  sat  down  together,  she  in  a  low 
chair  by  the  fire,  he  on  the  hearth  rug  at  her 
feet,  staring  into  the  red  coals,  she  learned  the 
story  of  the  mavis,  or  as  much  of  it  as  Jack 
could  put  into  words,  which,  indeed,  was  not 
much.  He  told  it  quietly,  without  tears,  but 
with  pauses  and  intervals  of  silence  here  and 
there,  much  as  she  had  heard  other  stories 
told  long  ago  in  Siberia. 

But  for  that  same  Siberia,  she  too,  like  Dr. 
Jenkins,  would  probably  have  failed  to  under- 


JACK    RAYMOND.  189 

stand.  But  she  had  lived  outside  the  pale  of 
men's  mercy,  and  her  unsheltered  eyes  had 
seen  the  naked  sores  of  the  world.  Month 
after  month  of  daily  contact  with  criminals, 
idiots,  and  lunatics  on  the  journey  out,  years 
spent  among  a  monstrous  population  of  de- 
generates in  a  land  which  has  been  for  cen- 
turies a  sink  without  a  drain,  had  taught  her 
many  things.  To  her  the  Vicar's  disease  was 
no  new  horror ;  she  had  seen  his  like  in 
every  shape  and  stage,  from  ghastly  children 
sniggering  and  leering  while  they  burned  a 
squirrel  alive,  to  homicidal  maniacs  plunging 
into  frenzied  orgies,  their  hands  wet  from  the 
gash  in  a  victim's  throat. 

The  story  was  finished,  and  both  sat  silent 
for  a  little  while.  It  was  growing  dark  in  the 
room.  Helen  was  softly  stroking  the  head 
on  her  knee. 

"  Tell  me  one  thing  more,  my  son.  What 
was  it  you  were  going  to  do  when  you  got 
out  of  the  window  ?  To  run  away  and  go  to 
sea?" 

"  Not  to  sea ;  only  to  the  cliff.  I'd  had 
enough." 


1 90  JACK   RAYMOND. 

His  voice  was  quite  lifeless  and  dreary; 
utterly  unchildlike. 

"  Old  Jenkins  is  wrong,  though,"  he  added. 
"  Uncle  didn't  know  my  arm  was  smashed  ;  I 
took  precious  good  care  he  shouldn't." 

Her  fingers  tightened  on  his.  "  Be- 
cause .  .  .  ? " 

"  You  see,  I  couldn't  manage  to  kill  him  ;  I 
did  try  once,  and  it  was  no  use.  So  I  thought 
I'd  see  whether  I  could  make  him  kill  me  ; 
then  he'd  have  been  hanged." 

Helen  stooped  and  kissed  him.  The 
twilight  faded  slowly  into  darkness ;  a  faint 
glow  shone  in  the  blackening  coals. 

"That's  why  it's  such  beastly  rot,"  Jack 
began  suddenly,  and  stopped.  Helen's  arm 
was  still  round  his  neck. 

"What  is,  dear?" 

"  Why,  you  coddling  me  up  and  making  all 
this  fuss,  just  as  if  I  was  Theo.  Oh,  of  course 
I'll  look  after  the  little  beggar,  and  try  to  lick 
him  into  shape,  and  not  let  the  other  chaps 
bully  him, — he's  such  a  shrimp ;  but  his  want- 
ing to  chum  up  with  me,  and  all  that,  is  just 
bubble  and  squeak." 


JACK    RAYMOND.  191 

"  Theo  is  a  little  boy,  and  .  .  .  has  not 
gone  down  into  hell,  yet.  His  turn  will 
come,  when  he  is  a  man.  But  I  think  I 
understand." 

Jack  burst  out  laughing.  His  voice  sounded 
old  and  thin  out  of  the  darkness. 

"You?"  he  said.     "Rats!" 

He  jerked  away  from  her  hand  and  stirred 
the  dying  embers  with  the  poker. 

"  You  think,  because  you've  seen  prisons 
and  things  .  .  .  What  do  you  know  ?  you're 
clean.  Your  people  may  have  been  shot  and 
hanged,  and  all  that,  but  they've  not  been 
tied  up  and " 

She  put  a  hand  over  his  mouth  to  stop  him. 

"  Hush  !  It  was  to  set  God's  creature  free, 
and  Theo's  father  died  to  set  God's  people 
free.  Whose  child  should  you  be  but  mine?" 
•  •  •  .  • 

Early  next  morning,  when  he  came  into 
Helen's  room,  awkward  and  sullen,  to  say 
good-bye,  she  greeted  him  in  a  cheerful, 
matter-of-fact  way,  as  if  their  new  relation- 
ship were  years  old. 

"  Then  you'll  spend  all  your  holidays  here, 


1 92  JACK    RAYMOND. 

if  your  people  don't  object.  I'll  run  down  to 
Cornwall  and  see  them,  and  try  to  arrange 
matters ;  perhaps  they'll  let  me  adopt  you 
altogether.  And  about  pocket-money,  of 
course  you'll  share  whatever  Theo  has,  and 
I'll  make  the  amount  a  little  larger.  It's 
rather  a  tiny  income  for  three,  so  we  shall 
all  have  to  be  careful  till  my  two  sons  are 
grown,  and  can  support  themselves." 

Jack  muttered  something  sulkily  about  its 
being  "  beastly  slow  "  not  to  be  twenty-one. 
He  was  near  to  breaking  down  again,  and  his 
speech  was  proportionately  curt  and  slangy. 
There  were  tears  in  Helen's  eyes  as  she 
kissed  him. 

"  And  you'll  take  care  of  Theo.  Since  I 
was  left  alone  I  have  been  anxious  about  him, 
having  no  one  near  that  I  could  trust.  He 
will  be  a  musician  when  he  grows  up,  and 
musicians  are  not  always  the  happiest  people. 
But  I  shall  feel  quite  safe  now  that  I  have  you, 
who  are  so  good  to  singing-birds.  God  keep 
you,  my  other  son  !  " 

It  was  the  last  time  that  the  story  of  the 
mavis  was  referred  to. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  year  in  which  Jack  came  of  age  was  to 
-him  one  of  trial.  He  grew  up,  and  entered 
into  life ;  a  difficult  matter  commonly,  and  in 
his  case  a  grievous  one. 

He  was  studying  medicine  in  London,  and 
the  more  observant  among  the  professors  had 
begun  to  watch  his  development  with  interest. 
When  he  could  get  sufficiently  far  out  of 
himself  to  throw  off  the  laboured  accuracy, 
the  painful  over-conscientiousness  which 
usually  marred  his  work,  he  would  show  a 
certain  breadth  of  conception  and  sureness  of 
intellectual  grasp  quite  unusual  at  his  age. 
More  than  once  a  professor,  demonstrating  in 
the  dissecting  room,  had  looked  up  in  surprise 
at  his  questions,  and  asked  him  quickly : 
"  How  did  you  guess  that  ?  "  But  these  flashes 
of  sudden  insight  never  came  to  help  him  out 
at  examinations.  At  such  times  he  always 
relapsed  into  the  dull  and  docile  pupil  whom 

193 


i94  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Dr.  Cross  had  known.  He  was  too  steady 
and  diligent  a  worker  to  fail;  but  would  pass 
ingloriously,  by  sheer  perseverance,  show- 
ing no  trace  of  the  special  capacities  which 
marked  him  as  a  born  physician. 

His  heart's  desire,  never  mentioned  to  any 
one  except  Helen,  and  to  her  but  half-ex- 
pressed, was  to  become  a  great  specialist  in 
the  diseases  of  children.  Even  to  himself  he 
scarcely  formulated  this,  his  one  ambition  ;  but, 
hidden  deep  under  the  diffidence  which  af- 
flicted him  lay  an  abiding  sense  that  he  was 
called  to  this  vocation;  rather,  that  he  held  a 
claim  for  it  upon  the  gods,  as  justification  for 
faith.  In  his  dumb  way,  half-consciously,  he 
demanded  this  satisfaction  of  them,  not  repin- 
ing nor  in  anger,  but  as  a  fair  right,  bought  and 
paid  for.  Surely  they  would  be  honest  for  this 
once,  and  not  repudiate  so  clear  a  title-deed. 
Seeing  that  he  had  accepted  the  curse  of 
childhood  as  they  had  laid  it  on  him,  and  had 
neither  blasphemed  against  their  ruling  nor 
fallen  by  the  way  and  died,  it  seemed  but  just 
that  they  should  grant  him,  in  return,  a  spe- 
cial understanding  of  the  wrongs  and  griefs 


JACK   RAYMOND.  195 

of  children,  a  special  right  to  help  and  heal. 
If  Dr.  Jenkins  had  but  understood  .  .  . 

In  other  respects  his  childhood  had  marked 
him  less  than  Helen  had  feared.  The  trace 
of  it  showed  chiefly  in  a  certain  soberness 
of  judgment,  the  serious  moderation  of  a  too 
early  maturity.  Yet  he  seemed  to  her  freer 
than  she  had  dared  to  hope  from  any  morbid 
taint  of  bitterness,  and,  if  not  so  young  as  his 
years  warranted,  still,  far  younger  than  he  had 
been  at  fourteen. 

Of  Molly  he  seldom  spoke,  even  to  Helen  ; 
and  she  had  often  grieved  over  his  reticence, 
dreading  lest  it  might  be  the  cloak  for  secret 
brooding.  But,  well  as  she  had  learned  to 
read  his  character,  she  was  mistaken  here. 
He  had  trained  himself  not  to  waste  his 
strength  on  barren  yearning  before  the  coming 
of  the  time  for  action.  To  rescue  his  sister 
was  with  him  a  purpose,  not  a  craving ;  when 
he  should  have  hewn  a  foothold  for  himself  it 
would  be  time  to  turn  and  stretch  a  hand  to 
her  ;  till  then  he  could  do  nothing  for  her  but 
keep  his  face  averted,  lest  the  sight  of  her, 
defenceless  in  the  enemy's  hands,  might  dis- 


196  JACK   RAYMOND. 

tract  him  from  his  work.  He  had  not  seen 
her  for  seven  years.  She  had  been  put  to 
school  in  Truro,  he  knew ;  and,  being  now 
sixteen  and  tall  for  her  age,  was  counted  a 
young  woman  grown.  "  Next  summer," 
Aunt  Sarah  had  written  in  her  Christmas 
letter,  "she  is  to  come  home  for  good,  and 
help  in  the  parish  work  ;  for  I  am  not  so 
active  as  I  used  to  be,  and  your  uncle  is 
troubled  with  rheumatism  in  the  damp 
weather.  She  had  a  fancy  to  learn  hospital 
nursing ;  but  your  uncle  decided  that  she 
would  be  more  useful  and  safer  from  tempta- 
tion at  home,  so  she  has  said  no  more  about 
it.  She  has  always  been  a  good  girl  and  very 
obedient,  and  he  is  pleased  with  her." 

The  Christmas  letters,  one  from  Aunt 
Sarah  and  one  from  Molly  herself,  had  been, 
for  all  these  seven  years,  the  only  link  be- 
tween Jack  and  his  old  life ;  except,  indeed, 
the  formal  quarterly  reports  of  his  progress 
which  he  had  sent,  as  stipulated,  to  the  Vicar, 
and  the  long  replies  to  them,  each  containing 
a  meagre  cheque  and  much  sound  advice  and 
pious  exhortation.  The  admonitions  troubled 


JACK   RAYMOND.  197 

him  little  ;  the  remittances  were  the  blackest 
shadow  left  upon  his  youth  ;  a  shadow  of 
which  Helen  scarcely  dared  to  speak,  since 
she  could  do  nothing  to  remove  it.  Once 
only,  the  Easter  when  he  was  sixteen,  the 
look  on  his  face,  as  he  laid  the  cheque 
beside  her,  had  made  her  break  silence,  put- 
ting up  a  thin  hand  to  touch  his  cheek. 

"  My  dear,  you  need  never  see  him  again, 
at  least  until  you  are  a  man." 

"  I  have  to  eat  his  bread,"  he  had  answered 
in  his  slow,  tense  way.  "  The  stray  cats  in 
the  street  are  luckier ;  they're  not  told  who 
throws  the  scraps." 

After  his  return  to  school,  Helen,  with  her 
failing  health,  had  made  again  the  weary 
journey  to  Porthcarrick,  and  repeated  her 
ineffectual  entreaty  that  she  might  be  per- 
mitted to  adopt  the  lad  altogether. 

"  I  could  afford  to  keep  him  till  he  can  keep 
himself,"  she  urged;  "and  it  would  settle 
many  difficulties.  Once  you  have  consented 
to  let  him  live  with  me,  why  should  you  pay 
his  schooling?  It  is  only  right  and  just  that 
I,  who  have  the  privilege  of  his  affection, 


198  JACK   RAYMOND. 

should  cover  his  expenses.  It's  small  return 
for  the  benefit  that  his  companionship  has 
been  to  my  own  child.  And  the  boy  himself 
would  be  happier,  too." 

Beyond  a  little  more  compression  of  the 
lips  there  was  no  sign  in  the  Vicar's  face  that 
she  had  pained  him. 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  happiness,"  he  said, 
"  but  of  right  and  wrong.  My  dead  brother's 
son  has  a  claim  upon  me  for  food  and  clothing, 
and  for  an  adequate  and  Christian  education, 
and  I  will  not  shirk  my  responsibilities.  It  is 
enough  that  I  have  consented  to  be  set  aside 
and  to  let  a  stranger  take  the  place  which 
belongs  in  God's  sight  to  me  and  to  my  wife. 
That  the  boy  has  proved  unworthy,  and  that 
he  repays  me  with  vindictiveness  and  hatred, 
are  considerations  off  the  point.  It  is  my 
duty  to  provide  for  him." 

Helen  submitted ;  to  press  him  further 
would  have  been  to  risk  awakening  his  com- 
bative instincts :  and  if  he  should  choose  at 
any  time  to  call  the  lad  back  home,  she  could 
not  resist. 

"  I  have  tried  again,  my  dear,"  she  said  to 


JACK   RAYMOND.  199 

Jack  on  her  next  visit  to  the  school ;  "  and 
failed  again.  You  will  have  to  bear  it  as  best 
you  can  " 

As  she  looked  up,  and  saw  the  line  in  which 
his  mouth  had  set,  it  struck  upon  her  suddenly 
how  like  the  Vicar  he  was.  There  was  a 
likeness  in  his  speech  too,  when  he  answered. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  bothered  to  go  so  far  for 
nothing,"  was  all  he  said.  "  If  you  had  asked 
me,  I  could  have  told  you  it  would  be  no  use." 

On  his  twenty-first  birthday  Jack  received 
a  letter  from  his  uncle,  inviting  him  to  Porth- 
carrick  for  the  settlement  of  business  con- 
nected with  the  investment  of  the  small 
property  left  by  Captain  Raymond,  for  which 
the  Vicar  had  been  trustee.  "  I  have  pre- 
served it  intact,"  the  letter  ran,  "  for  you 
and  your  sister ;  and  to  that  end  have  cov- 
ered all  the  expenses  of  your  minority  out  of 
my  own  purse.  Being  my  next  of  kin,  you 
will  be  co-heirs  to  what  little  I  have  to  leave ; 
so  you  had  better  know  how  it  is  invested. 
I  presume  also  that,  after  so  many  years,  you 
will  wish  to  see  your  sister." 

He   replied   stiffly   and   politely,   declining 


200  JACK   RAYMOND. 

the  invitation.  "  From  my  share  of  what  my 
father  left,"  he  added,  "  I  would  ask  you  to 
repay  yourself  what  you  have  spent  for  me ; 
and  if  anything  is  left  over,  to  take  it  for  my 
sister's  keep.  I  will  try  to  repay  you  when  I 
can  what  she  has  cost  you.  Of  the  money 
you  speak  of  leaving  to  me  in  your  will  I 
have  no  need." 

There  the  letter  ended,  with  a  curt:  "  Faith- 
fully yours." 

For  the  summer  vacation  he  went,  as  always, 
to  Shanklin.  Helen  did  not  meet  him  on  the 
platform,  and  he  left  the  station  with  a  sud- 
den deepening  of  the  grave  lines  round  his 
mouth.  He  had  been  anxious  for  some  time 
about  her  health  ;  and  he  knew  that  nothing 
short  of  illness  would  have  kept  her  in  when 
he  was  coming.  Approaching  the  cottage  he 
stopped  short,  drawing  in  his  breath  ;  a  great 
tangle  of  jasmine,  torn  down  from  the  wall 
by  last  night's  storm,  hung  trailing  on  the 
steps  ;  in  the  garden  border  the  red  carna- 
tions had  fallen  over  and  lay  prone,  their 
blossoms  in  the  dost ;  Helen's  flowers,  that 
were  always  cared  for  like  young  children. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  201 

She  was  in  the  sitting  room,  the  maid  told 
him,  lying  on  the  sofa.  She  had  not  been 
well  lately,  but  had  insisted  on  getting  up  to- 
day because  he  was  coming.  Going  into  the 
room  softly,  he  found  her  asleep,  and  stood 
still,  looking  down  at  her.  The  lines  deep- 
ened again  about  his  mouth  ;  she  was  more 
changed  even  than  he  had  feared. 

When  she  awoke,  he  kissed  her  without  any 
sign  of  agitation,  and  began  at  once  to  talk  of 
ordinary  trifles.  She  looked  at  him  a  moment, 
covertly,  and  saw  that  he  had  understood. 
"  He  is  doctor  enough  to  see,"  she  thought ; 
"  it  will  be  different  with  Theo." 

"When  is  Theo  coming?"  he  asked,  as 
if  he  had  followed  her  thought. 

"  Next  week ;  the  Academy  vacation  does 
not  begin  till  Saturday,  and  he  will  break  the 
journey  at  Paris.  Conrad  wants  Saint-Saens 
to  hear  him." 

Theo  was  studying  music  under  Joachim 
in  Berlin.  He  was  to  make  his  first  public 
appearance  in  the  autumn ;  and  great  things 
were  expected  of  him. 

"I    am  glad  to  have  you  alone  for  a  few 


207  JACK   RAYMOND. 

days  before  he  comes,"  she  went  on.  "  There 
are  several  things  I  want  to  talk  over  with 
you." 

"About  Theo?" 

"  Chiefly  about  him.  He  has  not  .  .  . 
grown  up  as  you  have,  dear ;  perhaps  it  is 
the  penalty  of  his  type  of  genius  that  the 
possessor,  or  possessed,  of  it  never  can  grow 
up.  You  will  have  to  be  a  man  for  him, 
as  well  as  for  yourself,  after  .  .  . 

The  sentence  was  hardly  broken  off ;  there 
was  no  need  to  finish  it,  seeing  that  he 
had  understood.  He  sat  quite  still  for  a 
moment ;  then  looked  up  smiling,  defiantly 
cheerful. 

11  Yes  ;  it's  a  bit  rough  on  him,  isn't  it  ? 
Still,  some  one's  got  to  have  genius,  if  the  rest 
of  us  are  to  hear  any  music.  It  was  kind  of 
the  fates  not  to  curse  me  with  it,  as  things 
stand." 

She  laughed  softly  and  put  a  hand  in  his. 

"  In  addition  to  all  other  curses  ?  You  have 
brought  blessings  out  of  them  for  an  old 
woman  that  loves  you,  my  grave  and  reverend 
counsellor.  Some  day  a  young  woman  will 


JACK   RAYMOND.  203 

love  you  instead  of  me,  and  you  will  grow 
young  with  her.  I  should  be  glad  to  see  you 
young,  once,  for  five  minutes." 

"There's  no  need,  where  Theo  is.  He 
is  not  just  young;  he  is  youth  everlasting." 

"  Poor  Theo  ! "  she  sighed  under  her 
breath ;  and  Jack  stooped  down,  for  answer, 
and  kissed  her  fingers. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  turned 
away,  "you  made  me  a  promise  last  month." 

"  Yes,  dear,  and  kept  it." 

He  started  and  looked  up. 

"You  went  to  London,  and  .  .  .  never 
told  me?" 

"  Of  course  not.  It  just  happened  that  one 
of  the  specialists  you  mentioned  came  to 
Ventnorlast  week  for  a  holiday  ;  and  I  thought 
I  would  get  the  thing  over  at  once,  so  I 
got  an  introduction,  and  .  .  . 

"  Who  was  it  ?  " 

"  Professor  Brooks.  I  didn't  care  to  write 
about  it,  when  you  were  coming  home  so 
soon." 

"And  he   .   .   .    ?" 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  cancer." 


204  JACK   RAYMOND. 

She  heard  the  quick  sound  in  his  throat  as 
the  breath  stopped  an  instant ;  then  there 
was  silence,  and  he  sat  and  looked  before  him, 
a  stone  figure,  grey  and  motionless.  After  a 
little  while  she  raised  herself,  and  slipped  her 
arm  about  him. 

44  Does  it  shake  you  so,  dear  ?  I  knew 
it  was  that,  and  I  thought  ...  I  thought 
you  had  guessed  too." 

He  looked  round  slowly,  pale  as  ashes. 

"I  had  suspected;  but  to  know  is  different. 
Does  he  think  .  .  .  ?" 

44  He  wants  to  see  you.  I  told  him  you 
were  coming,  and  he  made  an  appointment 
for  to-morrow.  He  refused  to  tell  me  any 
details ;  and  even  the  fact  itself  he  told  me 
only  because  he  saw  I  knew." 

Again  they  were  silent.  When  next  she 
spoke,  her  voice  was  lower,  and  a  little 
tremulous. 

44  There  is  one  thing  I  have  to  say  to  you, 
and  I  want  you  to  remember  it  all  your 
life.  You  have  been  to  me,  without  knowing 
it,  the  consolation  for  a  bitter  grief.  It  is  the 
way  of  a  mother,  I  suppose,  to  create  out 


JACK   RAYMOND.  205 

of  her  brain  the  dream  son  that  her  soul 
desires,  and  to  find,  when  she  is  old  and 
weary,  that  the  son  she  has  created  out  of 
her  body  is  different ;  better,  may  be,  but 
to  her  a  stranger.  It  is  not  for  me  to 
reproach  the  fates  because  they  have  given 
my  boy  artistic  genius  and  the  limitations 
that  sometimes  go  with  it ;  and  perhaps  he  is 
all  the  dearer  to  me  because  his  nature  is  to 
mine  so  new  and  strange  and  wonderful.  But 
you,  who  have  no  blood  of  mine,  have  been 
the  other  son,  the  child  of  my  secret  hope  ; 
and  I  shall  go  more  lightly  to  meet  death  be- 
cause I  have  seen  the  desire  of  my  sight, 
a  son  that  I  can  trust." 

For  all  answer  he  slipped  down  and  knelt 
beside  her,  his  head  against  her  breast. 

"  I  can  trust  you."  She  lingered  passion- 
ately on  the  words.  "  I  can  trust  you ;  and 
Theo  will  be  safe.  If  I  had  not  found  you,  I 
should  have  had  to  die — think  of  it ! — and 
leave  him  alone  .  .  . 

Jack  lifted  up  his  head  suddenly,  and  she 
saw  how  white  he  was. 

"  And  aren't  you  leaving  me  alone  ?    Thea 


206  JACK   RAYMOND. 

— Theo  will  have  me ;  and  what  shall  I 
have  ?  What  else  have  I  got  in  the  world  but 
you  ?  What  sort  of  life  have  you  ever  had  ? 
And  now, — when  I  might  have  begun  to  give 
you  a  little  peace  and  happiness It's  un- 
just !  It's  unjust.  Oh,  there,  don't  let  us  talk 
about  it,  for  God's  sake  ! " 

He  pulled  his  hand  away  from  hers  and 
went  out  hastily.  She  heard  the  house-door 
slammed  and  hurried  footsteps  on  the  gar- 
den path ;  then  everything  was  still,  and 
she  leaned  back  on  her  pillows,  panting  for 
breath.  Jack's  sudden  break-down  had  set 
her  heart  throbbing  with  affright ;  it  was 
so  unlike  him. 

He,  for  his  part,  lay  face  downwards  on  the 
grass  under  the  laburnum  tree.  At  last  he 
gathered  himself  up,  tramped  to  and  fro  in 
the  garden  for  a  while,  and  came  in  at  the 
verandah  door  with  his  everyday  face. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  I'm  going  to  tie  up 
the  jasmine  ;  and  I  asked  Eliza  to  make  some 
tea  and  help  you  get  to  bed.  You  mustn't 
overtire  yourself." 

The   next    day    he    called     on    Professor 


JACK   RAYMOND.  207 

Brooks,  and  heard  the  details  of  the  sentence 
with  an  unmoved  face.  She  might  live  a 
year,  or  even  more,  the  professor  said,  or 
perhaps  only  a  few  months ;  one  could  not 
tell  much  beforehand  with  internal  cancer. 
He  was  not  inclined  to  advise  an  operation  ; 
it  might  prolong  her  life  a  little,  but  only  for 
a  few  months  at  the  most ;  and  the  other  way 
would  be  more  merciful.  "  If  she  were  my 
mother,"  he  added  gently,  "  I  should  not 
wish  an  operation." 

There  was  no  tremor  in  Jack's  voice. 
"  Then  you  think  she  will  suffer  very  much  ?  " 
he  asked.  The  professor  hesitated. 

"  It  depends  .  .  .  Perhaps  not  so  much 
as  in  many  cases,  if  it  goes  quickly ;  but 
cancer  is  always  cancer,  and  it  may  .  .  . 

He  stopped,  with  a  sense  of  wonder  at  the 
stolid  face.  "  Is  that  callousness,"  he  asked 
himself,  "  or  self-control  ?  "  Then  he  saw 
the  little  sweat  beads  break  out  on  Jack's 
forehead,  and  thought :  "  Poor  lad  ! n 

The  next  week  brought  Theo,  like  em- 
bodied sunshine  ;  a  creature  ignorant  of 
death  and  grief.  Helen  had  written  to  him 


208  JACK   RAYMOND 

at  Paris,  telling  him  that  she  had  been  ill 
and  was  "  not  quite  strong  enough  to  get 
about "  ;  so  he  was  prepared  to  be  met  at  the 
station  by  Jack  only,  and  to  find  her  on  the 
sofa  when  they  reached  the  house.  He  came 
in  with  his  unshadowed  face,  his  violin,  his 
aureole  of  yellow  curls  ;  and  knelt  down  to 
hug  and  kiss  her  rapturously  and  to  litter  the 
sofa  with  the  presents  he  had  brought. 

"  Why,  mummy,  what  do  you  mean  by  fall- 
ing ill  the  minute  we  go  away  ?  Is  it  to  pro- 
vide Jack  with  an  opportunity  to  try  his  hand 
at  doctoring  ?  That's  carrying  maternal  de- 
votion a  bit  too  far.  And  to  grow  so  thin, 
too !  You  must  hurry  up  and  get  well  before 
the  bright  weather  goes ;  we  want  to  take 
you  boating,  you  know.  Wait,  I've  got 
something  outside  that  '11  make  you  well  to 
look  at." 

He  ran  out  into  the  passage,  then  came 
back  with  a  huge  sheaf  of  white  Annunciation 
lilies  filling  both  arms,  and  heaped  them  all 
over  the  sofa. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  glorious  ones  ?  I 
stopped  at  Havre  on  the  way,  and  the  peas- 


JACK   RAYMOND.  209 

ants  were  bringing  them  in  to  market  for  the 
Madonna's  images  in  church,  so  I  got  a  bar- 
rowful  for  my  special  Madonna." 

"  And  carried  that  load  all  the  way  from 
Havre  ?  And  the  violin  too  ?  " 

"  Well,  mummy,  people  carry  lilies  and 
musical  instruments  in  heaven,  don't  they? 
And  the  water  was  like  heaven  to-day,  with 
white  sea-birds  instead  of  seraphim,  and  shiny 
fishes  wriggling  and  jumping  for  sheer  delight, 
like  the  souls  of  the  good  people  after  they 
die.  Why,  Jack,  how  seedy  you  look  !  Too 
much  dissecting,  is  it  ?  " 

Jack  was  standing  still,  looking  out  into 
the  blossoming  garden,  and  wondering  how 
much  more  of  this  a  man  could  bear.  He 
turned  with  his  wooden  face. 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,  thanks.  Don't  you 
think  the  lilies  should  go  in  water  ?" 

"  Yes ;  they'll  want  a  big  bath-tub,  won't 
they  ?  Mummy,  you  look  sweeter  than  ever ; 
you  ought  always  to  be  half  buried  in  lilies." 

As  he  stooped  to  lift  them  Helen  caught 
his  arm  and  drew  him  down  beside  her,  rest- 
ing her  cheek  against  his. 


zio  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  Kochanku  moj  !  "  Her  eyes  shone  with 
a  light  which  only  Theo's  presence  waked  in 
them  ;  her  voice  had  a  deeper  tone  in  her 
native  speech.  And  Jack,  the  outsider,  looked 
on  without  bitterness  or  jealousy,  but  with 
an  aching  heart.  He  had  grown  accustomed 
to  this,  years  ago ;  yet  the  pain  of  it  was 
always  new.  It  was  a  thing  inevitable,  that 
must  be  accepted  and  endured  in  silence. 
To  the  end  his  uttermost  devotion  would 
be  a  lesser  joy  to  her  than  the  touch  of 
this  bright  creature's  wings  ;  yet  he  was  loved 
as  much  as  any  one  could  ever  be  who  was 
not  Theo  and  not  of  Polish  blood.  "  She 
sees  Poland  in  him,"  he  thought  once  more  ; 
"  and  he  cares  as  much  for  Poland  as  I  for 
El  Dorado." 

Theo  ran  off  laughing,  his  arms  full  of 
lilies,  and  the  black  kitten,  dusted  from  ear 
to  tail  with  golden  pollen,  purring  on  his 
shoulder.  The  door  closed  behind  him,  and 
the  light  faded  out  of  Helen's  eyes. 

11  Jack,  how  can  we  ever  tell  him  ?  It  is 
sacrilege  to  throw  a  cloud  on  him  ;  he  is 
Baldur  the  Beautiful." 


JACK   RAYMOND,  211 

Jack  was  stooping  to  smooth  her  pillow 
and  gather  up  the  fallen  lily  petals.  He 
spoke  with  his  face  turned  away. 

"  You  had  better  let  me  tell  him,  mother ; 
it  may  be  less  of  a  shock  to  him  that  way, 
and  Professor  Brooks  wants  you  kept  quiet." 

There  was  a  kind  of  struggle  in  her  face. 

"  No,  dear  ! "  she  said  at  last.  "  We  will 
neither  of  us  tell  him.  Let  him  have  this 
one  summer  without  a  cloud.  Remember,  he 
comes  out  next  autumn,  and  it  might  shake 
his  nerves  and  spoil  his  playing ;  and  the  first 
concerts  mean  so  much.  There's  no  reason 
why  he  should  know ;  I  .  .  .  I  don't  have 
the  pain  very  often  yet ;  and  he  goes  back 
to  Germany  in  September  ;  he  won't  find  out 
before  then  .  .  . 

Jack  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  gravely. 
"  As  you  like,  mother.  It  shall  be  our  secret, 
yours  and  mine.'1 


CHAPTER  X. 

So  the  holiday-time  passed,  and  Theo 
suspected  nothing.  His  mother's  weakness 
and  inability  to  take  the  pleasure  trips  he  had 
planned  for  her  were  a  sore  disappointment  to 
him  ;  his  sweet  and  sunny  nature  could  not 
care  for  enjoyment  which  might  not  be  shared 
with  others,  and  he  had  religiously  saved  up  his 
few  superfluous  coins  "to  take  mother  about 
in  the  summer."  Not  being  able  to  do  this, 
he  spent  his  money  on  hot-house  grapes  and 
peaches  for  her,  and  his  time  in  ransacking 
the  district  for  flowers  and  shells,  making  a 
sea-water  aquarium  to  amuse  her,  or  sitting 
at  the  piano  in  the  dark,  improvising  soft 
fantasies  while  she  lay  listening  with  Jack's 
hand  clasped  in  hers.  "This  is  the  water  lap- 
ping against  a  boat,  mummy,"  he  would  say  ; 
"  next  year  you'll  come  out  and  hear  the  real 
thing  instead  of  my  imitations." 

"  I  think  I  like  your  imitations  best,  dear," 


JACK   RAYMOND.  213 

she  would  answer  cheerfully,  and  hold  Jack's 
hand  a  little  tighter. 

For  them  it  was  a  hard  summer ;  at  times, 
indeed,  so  hard  that  Jack's  courage  would  have 
failed  him  but  for  the  indomitable  patience  of 
hers.  The  disease  had  not  yet  reached  its 
most  painful  stage ;  but  there  were  already 
many  long,  sleepless  nights,  when  Jack  would 
sit  with  her,  reading  aloud  or,  if  she  was  too 
ill  for  that,  watching  beside  her  silently.  Often 
she  entreated  him  to  leave  her  and  go  back  to 
bed.  "  I  shall  be  quite  comfortable,"  she  would 
say,  secretly  dreading  the  lonely  horror  of  the 
night,  yet  fearing  lest  the  want  of  sleep  should 
injure  his  health. 

"  Let  me  have  all  I  can  of  you,  mother,"  he 
would  answer  softly ;  and  she  would  submit 
with  a  little  sigh  of  relief. 

Day  would  come  at  last,  and  with  it  Theo, 
light-footed  and  radiant,  carrying  dewy  trails 
of  honeysuckle  to  wreathe  the  foot  of  her  bed. 
"  Have  you  had  a  good  night,  mummy?" 
Sometimes  he  would  notice  Jack's  haggard 
face.  "You  work  too  hard,  old  fellow,"  he 
would  say.  Once  he  came  up  behind  him  in 


214  JACK   RAYMOND. 

the  garden  and  slipped  a  hand  through  his  arm; 
a  wonderful  hand,  strong  and  slender,  with 
the  live  finger-tips  of  the  musician.  "Jack," 
he  said,  "  I've  been  worrying  about  you.  I 
believe  you  have  some  trouble." 

Jack  paused  a  moment,  then  looked  up  with 
his  grave  smile.  "  A  love  trouble,  do  you 
think?  My  dear  boy,  I'm  just  an  ordinary 
cart-horse ;  I  can't  get  out  of  my  harness  to 
fall  in  love  like  you  artists.  By  the  way, 
what's  become  of  the  girl  you  wrote  that 
song  for  last  summer?" 

Theo's  tendency  to  fall  in  love  was  a  stand- 
ing joke  in  the  household.  A  less  adoring 
mother  than  Helen  might  have  grown  a  little 
impatient  of  his  raptures  over  now  one  girl 
and  now  another  whom  he  had  sat  beside  at 
a  concert  or  seen  passing  in  the  street.  He 
would  find  resemblances  to  the  Libyan  sybil, 
or  the  Madonna  delle  Pie,  or  Our  Lady  of  the 
Rocks,  where  Jack  with  his  slower  imagination 
could  see  only  a.  woman  like  any  other  woman. 
Once,  rambling  round  the  coast,  they  passed  a 
fisherman's  bare-footed  daughter,  sitting  on  a 
low  rock  at  the  water's  edge,  mending  her 


JACK   RAYMOND.  215 

father's  nets  ;  her  wind-roughened  hair  hang- 
ing on  her  shoulders,  a  red  sunset  behind  her 
and  wet  sands  gleaming  all  around.  For  a 
week  Theo  was  restless  and  miserable ;  he 
would  tramp  in  pouring  rain  over  windy  cliffs 
to  the  village  where  she  lived,  and  come  back 
in  the  evening,  wet  to  the  skin,  and  pallid  with 
weariness  and  disappointment  because  he  had 
not  seen  her.  Then  came  Sunday,  and  he  saw 
her  going  to  church  in  her  best  clothes,  shiny 
boots  cramping  her  feet  and  the  thick  hair 
dragged  up  under  a  horrible  monstrosity  of  a 
hat,  nodding  and  wagging  with  huge  magenta 
roses.  He  came  home,  with  a  tragic  face,  but 
cured.  Nothing  remained  of  his  passion  for 
the  bare-legged  unknown  girl  but  an  exquisite 
little  violin  romance,  which  he  called:  "The 
Fishing-Nets." 

The  holidays  over,  he  went  back  to 
Germany.  Helen  had  persisted  in  keeping 
the  truth  from  him.  "  But,  mother,"  Jack  said 
at  last ;  "  he  must  know  some  time.  Don't 
let  it  come  with  a  shock  at  the  end.  And  .  .  . 
Germany  is  such  a  long  way  off." 

"  There's  still  time  ;  let  him  have  his  first 


216  JACK   RAYMOND.  * 

concerts  in  peace.  We  can  send  for  him  when 
I  get  worse.  And  when  he  does  come,  dear, 
you  must  keep  the  bad  sights  from  him.  I 
.  .  .  have  seen  a  person  dying  of  cancer, 
and  I  don't  want  Theo  .  .  .  ' 

"Mother!"  Jack  broke  in,  "that  is  not 
fair.  He  is  a  human  creature,  and  you  have 
no  right  to  rob  him  of  a  human  inheritance. 
You  stand  with  a  shield  in  front  of  him,  and 
he  will  never  learn  to  live." 

"  He  will  learn  soon  enough — afterwards." 
tf  Afterwards   .    .    .    and  you  will  go  lonely 
this  last  winter  .    .   .  ' 

"  Not  lonely,  dear,  when  I  have  you." 
"  Oh,  yes,  you  have  me,  of  course ;  but  I'm 
not  Theo.  Mother,  you  have  been  sacrificed 
all  your  life  ;  and  now  at  the  very  end  .  .  . 
It's  wicked  to  carry  unselfishness  to  that;  it's 
not  just." 

"  It  would  not  be  just  for  me  to  hamper  his 
development.  An  artist  is  a  high  priest  before 
the  Lord  ;  he  belongs  to  all  men  and  to  no 
man.  I  have  no  right  to  take  him  from  his 
music  because  I  happen  to  be  dying ;  that  is 
for  mothers  whose  sons  have  no  genius." 


JACK   RAYMOND.  317 

Jack  stood  looking  on  the  floor,  his  teeth 
set.  "Then  thank  God  I  have  no  genius!" 
he  said  at  last.  She  drew  him  down  to  her 
and  kissed  his  forehead. 

"  Even  I  may  thank  God  for  that." 

When  Theo  had  gone,  Jack  brought  her  up 
to  London,  and  took  lodgings  near  Kew 
Gardens,  for  himself  and  her.  The  daily  jour- 
ney to  and  from  town  was  a  heavy  addition 
to  the  fatigue  of  his  life,  but  it  gave  Helen 
fresh  air  to  breathe  and  trees  to  look  at,  and 
enabled  him  to  be  with  her  for  the  few  months 
left  to  them. 

That  winter  he  failed  in  his  examination ; 
it  was  the  only  occasion  in  his  student  life 
when  this  happened. 

Before  the  questioning  began  he  knew  that 
he  was  going  to  fail ;  he  had  passed  a  terrible 
night  at  Helen's  bedside,  and  his  head  ached 
and  throbbed  so  that  the  floor  seemed  heaving 
beneath  him.  Taking  his  place,  he  looked 
round  at  his  fellow-students.  Some  were 
nervously  excited,  some  depressed;  a  few 
quite  composed  and  business-like.  He  watched 
them,  for  a  moment,  with  a  kind  of  vague 


2i8  JACK   RAYMOND. 

curiosity  ;  they  seemed  to  him  so  far  away,  so 
anxious  over  matters  of  no  moment.  Nothing 
was  of  any  consequence,  really,  except  the 
hopeless  things.  Cancer,  for  instance  ;  perhaps 
they  would  be  asked  about  that;  the  examiners 
putting  questions  and  the  students  answering 
them  would  think  they  knew  something  about 
it,  as  if  a  man  could  know  anything  about 
cancer  till  the  person  he  loves  best  is  dying  of 
it.  Then  he  knows,  the  only  thing  there  is  to 
know  :  that  there  is  nothing,  nothing,  nothing 
he  can  do. 

He  shut  his  eyes;  the  horror  of  last  night 
came  over  him,  stifling,  intolerable.  "  Oh, 
this  is  no  use ! "  he  thought ;  "  I'm  good  for 
nothing  to-day ;  I'd  better  go."  Then  he 
pulled  himself  together  and  plunged  stolidly 
into  the  task  set  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  day  one  of  the  examiners 
came  up  to  him  with  friendly  concern. 
"You're  not  looking  yourself  to-day,  Ray- 
mond ;  I'm  afraid  you  don't  feel  quite  up  to 
the  mark." 

"  No,  not  quite,"  Jack  answered.  "  I  was  a 
fool  to  come.  I  have  failed,  of  course?" 


JACK   RAYMOND.  219 

"I  ...  fear  so.  You  look  as  if  you 
ought  to  be  in  bed.  What's  wrong  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  much,  thank  you." 

Two  or  three  days  afterwards  the  same 
examiner  saw  him  in  the  street  and  crossed 
over  to  speak  to  him. 

"  Raymond,  Professor  Brooks  dined  with 
me  yesterday,  and  talked  about  you.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  us  you'd  been  up  all  night  with 
a  cancer  patient  ?  You  were  not  fit  to  go  in 
for  the  examination.  I'm  very  sorry  about  it; 
he  tells  me  you've  been  having  a  terribly  hard 
time." 

Jack's  eyes  flashed. 

"  Yes ;  and  so  has  the  woman  that  washes 
the  dissecting-room  floor.  She  lost  her  baby 
last  week,  and  I  found  her  crying  on  the  stairs 
over  her  bread  and  cheese.  But  she  didn't 
shirk  her  scrubbing  ;  people's  private  troubles 
have  got  nothing  to  do  with  their  work." 

The  examiner  looked  at  him,  puzzled.  "  I'm 
very  sorry,"  he  said  again  gently.  "Your 
mother,  isn't  it  ?  Have  you  plenty  of  friends 
in  London  ?" 

"  Thank  you  ;     Professor  Brooks  has  been 


220  JACK   RAYMOND. 

very  kind  ;  so  has  the  doctor  who  attends  her. 
As  for  friends,  there's  nothing  any  one  can 
do." 

41  Well,  if  there  should  be,  will  you  let  me 
know  ?  And  as  for  the  examination,  don't 
worry  about  that ;  you'll  pass  it  next  year. 
You  have  the  makings  of  a  good  doctor." 

Theo,  meanwhile,  had  taken  Berlin,  Paris, 
and  Vienna  by  storm.  The  enthusiasm 
aroused  by  his  playing  might  have  turned  a 
wiser  head  ;  but  his  nature  was  singularly  free 
from  petty  vanity  and  self-conceit,  and  the 
effect  which  success  produced  on  him  was  not 
what  might  have  been  expected  in  the  case  of 
an  impressionable  lad  of  eighteen  suddenly 
springing  from  obscurity  to  fame.  For  the 
first  month  or  two  it  amused  him ;  he  sent 
home  delicious  pen  and  ink  caricatures  of  him- 
self as  "the  last  new  Mumbo  Jumbo"  en- 
throned, with  a  lion's  mane,  still  short  and 
stubbly,  sprouting  behind  long,  asinine  ears ; 
or  as  a  gawky  country  bumpkin,  grinning 
through  a  violin  bow  for  the  delectation  of 
spectacled  musical  critics  and  fearsome  society 
dowagers. 


JACK  RAYMOND.  221 

Very  soon  the  favours  of  the  public  began 
to  disgust  him.  "  The  people  stare  at  me," 
he  wrote,  "  as  if  I  were  a  gorilla  in  a  cage ; 
and  clap  when  I  come  on,  till  I  feel  inclined 
to  say:  'Here  we  are!'  like  a  circus  clown, 
and  turn  a  back  somersault  off  the  platform. 
It's  utterly  hopeless  to  try  to  play  decently ; 
how  can  you  get  anywhere  near  to  your  music 
with  an  audience  that  is  only  thinking  about 
which  leg  you  stand  on  and  how  you  part 
your  hair  ?  And  I  hate  the  women  !  They 
click  their  fans  all  through  the  concert  out  of 
time ;  and  afterwards  they  come  up  to  you  in 
low-necked  frocks  and  tight  stays ;  and  talk 
about  their  souls,  with  just  yards  of  satin  and 
velvet  kicking  about  the  floor  under  your  feet 
that  you'd  give  your  best  G  string  to  be  able 
to  pick  up  and  hide  their  shoulders  with.  I 
know  they  ill-treat  their  servants." 

The  next  letter  contained  a  cheque,  and  a 
figure  dancing  on  one  leg  for  joy.  "  Darling 
mummy,"  the  hurried  pencil  scrawl  began  : 
"  here  are  grapes  and  carriage  drives  to  go  on 
with.  Hauptmann  "  (the  impresario)  "  has 
stumped  up  some  money,  and  there'll  be  plenty 


222  JACK   RAYMOND. 

more  soon.  Hurry,  hurry,  hurry and  get  well, 
and  wear  the  lace  I'm  sending  by  this  post. 
You're  never  to  scrimp  and  save  and  go  with- 
out things  any  more;  and  old  Jack  Sober- 
sides can  buy  all  the  skeletons  he  wants." 

"  Mother,"  Jack  said,  as  he  laid  the  letter 
down,  "  it  is  cruel  to  keep  him  in  the  dark  any 
longer." 

Slow  tears  gathered  under  her  closed  eye- 
lids ;  even  the  exertion  of  reading  a  letter  was 
too  much  for  her  now,  and  her  voice  was 
tremulous  with  utter  weariness. 

"You  may  tell  him  if  you  like,  dear;  it 
can't  injure  his  success  now."  She  broke  off, 
then  added  nervously :  "And  .  .  .  Jack  ..." 

"Yes,  mother?" 

"You'll  be  sure  and  tell  him  it's  .  .  .  not 
such  a  bad  case.  You  know  the  word  'cancer' 
always  gives  people  such  a  shock  ;  and  of 
course  it  might  easily  be  worse.  And  then 
the  morphia  is  a  great  help  .  .  . 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  him." 

He  wrote,  asking  Theo  to  come  home  as 
soon  as  his  concert  engagements  permitted, 
and  telling  him,  not  the  whole  truth,  but 


JACK   RAYMOND  223 

enough  to  prepare  him  for  hearing  the  rest. 
A  telegram  came  in  answer  ;  Theo  was  on  his 
way  home,  leaving  the  impresario  to  apologise 
to  an  excited  Parisian  audience. 

When  the  truth  was  told  him  at  last  he  bore 
it  with  more  dignity  and  patience  than  Jack 
had  expected  to  see.  The  shock  seemed  to 
have  awakened  in  him  some  dormant  strain  of 
his  mother's  character.  In  her  presence  he 
never  lost  his  self-control ;  but  Jack,  coming 
into  his  room  late  at  night,  found  him  sitting 
by  the  window  in  a  crouching  posture,  white 
and  panic-stricken.  He  sprang  up  at  the 
coming  of  the  grave,  protecting  presence,  and 
clung  to  Jack's  hand  like  a  scared  child. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come!  I  ... 
was  afraid." 

Jack  sat  down  with  him  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  putting  an  arm  round  his  shoulders  to 
stop  their  nervous  shivering.  He  could  not 
understand ;  to  him,  grief  was  a  different 
thing  from  this  ;  but  he  had  the  large  humility 
of  the  physician,  and  was  content  to  watch 
and  give  what  help  he  could,  if  need  be,  with- 
out understanding.  Theo  looked  up  after  a 


224  JACK   RAYMOND. 

little  while  ;  he  was  still  white,  but  the  shiver- 
ing had  stopped,  and  his  teeth  no  longer 
knocked  together  when  he  spoke. 

"  You  are  good  to  me,  old  fellow,"  he  said ; 
"and  I'm  keeping  you  up  when  you're  so 
tired." 

"  That's  all  right ;  I'm  used  to  being  up." 

"Jack,  are  you  never  afraid,  never?" 

"  I  don't  understand.     Afraid  of  what  ?" 

"  Of  death." 

Jack's  brow  drew  itself  down  into  an  ugly 
line. 

"  Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "  if  one's  going  in 
for  being  afraid,  there  are  worse  things  than 
death  to  be  afraid  of." 

"  I  don't  mean  one's  own  death — that's 
nothing ;  I  meaa  .  .  . 

"  Other  people's?  Yes,  that  is  worse;  but 
One  gets  accustomed,  in  time." 

"  No,  not  quite  that.  I  mean  .  .  .  the 
everlasting  presence,  the  idea  of  it,  always 
there,  always  waiting  for  everything  you  love. 
I  ...  never  thought  of  it  till  now ;  it's  like  a 
pit  dug  under  one's  feet,  saying  :  '  Tread  over 
me  if  you  dare.'  It  is  as  if  we  must  go 


JACK   RAYMOND.  225 

through  all  our  life  and  be  afraid  to  love  ;  if 
the  gods  should  see,  they  will  take  away  the 
thing  we  love." 

Jack  sat  still,  thinking,  the  sad  lines  deep 
about  his  mouth. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said  at  last.  "  If 
nothing  worse  than  death  happens  to  the  peo- 
ple that  a  fellow  loves,  he's  lucky.  It  seems 
to  me  deatn  makes  a  pretty  poor  show,  con- 
sidering all  the  bother  people  have  over  dying. 
Anyhow,  what's  the  use  of  worrying  your  head 
about  that  ?  Look  here,  Theo ;  if  you  get 
the  horrors,  or  the  blues,  or  anything,  don't 
sit  alone  this  way  ;  hold  on  tight  to  me  and 
I'll  pull  you  through  somehow." 

"  Haven't  you  ever  horrors  and  blues  of 
your  own  without  mine  ?  And,  besides,  I 
can't  hold  on  to  you  all  my  life." 

"  Why  not  ?  What  else  am  I  there  for  ?  I 
can't  play  the  fiddle." 

Theo  rose  with  a  sigh,  stretching  both  arms 
above  his  head. 

"  You  may  thank  the  gods  for  that,"  he  said, 
as  he  let  them  fall.  "  Did  you  know  old 
Hauptmann  has  wired  again  ?  He  wants  me 


226  JACK   RAYMOND. 

back  in  Paris  to-morrow  night  for  the  Beetho- 
ven concerto  at  the  Chatelet." 

"  Yes,  and  you  must  go  and  play  your  best ; 
it  will  disappoint  mother  if  you  don't.  Now 
tumble  into  bed,  and  be  asleep  in  five  minutes  ; 
you  must  start  early  to  get  in  to  town  for  the 
boat  train.  I'll  call  you  ;  I  shall  be  up  in  any 
case,  to  look  after  mother." 

Whether  Theo's  playing  of  the  concerto 
next  evening  was  up  to  his  best  level  or  no, 
it  was  good  enough  to  satisfy  both  audience 
and  impresario.  He  ground  his  teeth  a  little 
under  the  rain  of  applause  that  followed  ;  his 
nerves  were  overstrung  to  the  pitch  that  makes 
any  sound  appear  a  menace  and  any  crowd  a 
ravening  beast.  The  excited  audience,  shout- 
ing, staring,  clapping  hands  and  waving  pro- 
grammes, horrified  and  sickened  him  ;  he  shut 
his  eyes  despairingly. 

"  Bis  !  Bis  !"  they  yelled  at  him.   "  Bis  !  " 

His  breath  came  in  quick  pants  of  distress  ; 
he  was  almost  ready  to  clap  both  hands  over 
his  ears  and  shut  out  the  sound.  It  struck 
upon  him  like  a  blow,  like  sacrilege  ;  it  was  as 
if  he  must  cry  out  to  them:  "Stop!  Hush, 


JACK    RAYMOND.  227 

for  shame !  I  can't  play ;  my  mother  is 
dying." 

He  turned  to  leave  the  platform,  but  on  the 
steps  the  impresario  thrust  the  violin  into  his 
hands.  He  pushed  it  back. 

"  I  can't   .    .    .    I'm  tired   ..." 

"  Give  them  something — anything — quick  ! 
or  we  shall  never  be  done  to-night.  It's  the 
only  way  to  stop  them." 

Theo  took  the  instrument  mechanically  and 
returned  to  the  platform.  The  roar  of  shouts 
and  hand-clapping  died  down  suddenly  as  he 
raised  his  bow.  Then  came  silence,  and  he 
realised  that  he  had  nothing  to  play.  He 
looked  out  over  the  sea  of  faces,  blankly  ;  his 
memory  was  a  washed  slate ;  not  a  note  re- 
mained on  it,  not  the  name  of  a  composer. 

Yet  he  must  play  something ;  the  people 
down  there  with  the  upturned  faces  were  wait- 
ing, waiting  ;  and  he  had  nothing  to  give  them. 
A  thin  mist  spread  between  him  and  the  glar- 
ing lights  ;  there  was  a  dim  space  at  the  fur- 
ther end  of  the  hall,  and  he  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  it,  trying  to  remember.  A  room 
seemed  to  grow  out  of  the  shadows ;  half- 


228  JACK   RAYMOND 

darkened,  wholly  grief-stricken  and  cheerless  ; 
his  mother,  with  her  drawn  face  white  upon  the 
pillow,  her  wasted,  piteous  hands  ;  and  beside 
the  bed  a  watching  figure,  silent,  weary-eyed. 

He  began  to  play.  As  for  the  audience,  he 
had  forgotten  it ;  he  was  playing,  not  for  the 
concert-goers  of  Paris,  but  for  Jack  and  Helen. 
When  he  ended  there  was  silence  ;  then  thun- 
derous applause  burst  out  again.  He  shud- 
dered as  he  went  down  the  steps. 

In  the  artist's  room  Conrad  caught  him  by 
the  arm.  "  Theo,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  was 
that  .  .  .  your  own  ? " 

Theo  looked  round  him  desperately  ;  the 
maddening  sound  of  applause  filled  him  with 
terror ;  there  seemed  no  escape  from  its  ma- 
lignant pursuit. 

"I  ...  made  it  up  as  I  went  along.  Was 
it  ...  was  it  very  bad  ?  Uncle  Conrad,  stop 
them  ;  make  them  let  me  alone  !  I  .  .  .  ' 

He  was  white  and  shivering.  Conrad,  too, 
was  pale,  but  from  another  cause.  He  laid  a 
solemn  hand  on  the  lad's  shoulder. 

"  Render  thanks  to  God,"  he  said,  "for  His 
great  gift  of  genius." 


JACK   RAYMOND.  229 

Theo  burst  suddenly  into  passionate  sobs. 
"  And  mother  is  dying  .  .  .  ' 

For  the  remainder  of  the  winter  he  took  no 
Continental  engagements.  The  impresario 
argued,  coaxed,  and  threatened  in  vain;  then 
resigned  himself  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
and  made  arrangements  for  London  concerts. 
These,  fortunately,  brought  in  enough  money 
to  keep  the  little  household  in  comfort,  and 
to  surround  Helen  with  small  luxuries  which 
did  something  to  soften  the  hardness  of  a  hard 
death. 

Towards  the  end  she  partly  lost  the  sup- 
pressed manner  which  she  had  worn,  like  a 
nun's  grave-clothes,  through  all  the  years  of 
her  widowhood.  Conrad,  who  come  twice 
from  Paris  to  see  her,  even  recognised  at  mo- 
ments the  girl  Helen  whom  he  had  known  in 
his  youth.  Sometimes  in  the  evening,  hold- 
ing Jack's  hand  as  he  sat  by  her  low  couch 
before  the  fire,  while  Theo  lay  full-length  on 
the  hearth  rug  and  watched  her  with  adoring 
eyes,  she  would  tell  the  two  lads  fragmentary 
stories  of  her  life  in  Arctic  deserts,  of  her  hus- 
band and  his  death  there,  of  her  tragic  youth 


230  JACK   RAYMOND. 

and  dreary  middle  age.  But  it  was  not  often 
that  she  had  strength  to  spare  for  anything 
but  silent  endurance.  Her  pain  was  borne 
with  heroic  cheerfulness ;  but  it  wore  her  out 
none  the  less  surely  for  that. 

It  was  only  during  this  last  winter  that  she 
recovered  something  of  the  gift  of  improvisa- 
tion for  which  in  her  youth  she  had  been  re- 
markable. On  the  rare  "good  days"  when 
she  was  neither  suffering  acutely  nor  faint  and 
exhausted,  she  would  slip  unconsciously,  while 
talking  to  Jack  or  Theo,  into  a  rhapsodic  form 
of  expression,  now  in  verse,  now  in  prose, 
sometimes  in  an  irregular  rhythm  like  that  of 
a  chant. 

The  last  time  that  she  left  her  room  was  in 
the  beginning  of  March.  Between  two  periods 
of  bad  weather  came  a  few  cloudless  spring 
days,  and  the  earliest  flowers  burst  into  sudden 
bloom.  In  Kew  Gardens  the  shady  spaces 
under  trees  were  gracious  with  the  drooping 
heads  of  snowdrops,  and  broad  grassy  slopes 
flashed  back  the  sunlight  from  royal  chalices 
of  yellow  crocus  flowers. 

On  the  warmest  afternoon  Jack  and  Theo 


JACK   RAYMOND.  231 

laid  her  upon  her  couch  and  carried  her  out 
into  the  Gardens,  that  she  might  see  the 
coming  of  spring  before  she  died. 

They  took  her  to  a  wide,  open  space  where 
crocuses,  white  and  gold  and  purple,  bloomed 
by  tens  of  thousands,  their  bright  heads  erect,: 
their  stems  a  silver  forest  in  the  grass.  Jack 
sat  on  a  bench  beside  her ;  Theo,  as  usual, 
flung  himself  full-length  upon  the  ground,  his 
clasped  hands  behind  his  head.  Helen  lay 
looking  out  across  the  crocus  field  ;  the  still- 
ness of  her  face  made  the  two  lads  silent,  as  in 
the  presence  of  death. 

"Mother,"  Jack  said  at  last,  "I'm  afraid 
you  ought  to  come  in  now." 

"  One  moment,  dear  ;  I  shall  not  see  this 
again.  Look!"  Her  eyes  turned  back 
to  the  crocus  flowers.  "  They  are  my 
people." 

Jack  misunderstood  her  meaning;  he 
lacked  her  gift  of  keen  imagination. 

"Do  they  grow  wild  in  your  home?"  he 
asked,  and  turned  his  eyes  away  that  he  might 
not  look  upon  the  nakedness  of  this  eternal, 
unhealed  grief. 


232  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"Don't  you  see?"  Theo  murmured  from 
the  grass.  "  They  are  an  army." 

The  sudden  light  leaped  up  in  Helen's 
eyes. 

"An  army  for  an  instant  and  for  ever;  an 
army  that  recks  not  of  victory  or  of  defeat. 
Gain  and  loss  are  one  to  them ;  the  doom  of 
battle  is  upon  them  before  they  have  seen  the 
sunlight ;  they  fail  and  die,  and  it  afflicts  them 
nothing,  for  they  are  warriors  to  all  eternity  ; 
the  very  earth  around  their  feet  is  thick  with 
spears." 

The  listeners  held  their  breath  as  they 
heard ;  she  was  like  a  thing  transfigured,  full 
of  light. 

"  See  how  weak  and  defenceless  they  are, 
how  easily  crushed  under  foot ;  and  yet  how 
erect  and  patient  an  army.  There  is  not  one 
that  has  cast  away  his  colours  as  the  roses  do; 
not  one  that  shrivels  on  the  stalk  in  the  shame 
of  a  withered  heart.  As  each  man's  time  is 
come,  he  falls  where  he  stood  ;  and  a  new 
soldier  fills  his  vacant  place,  never  turning  to 
look  where  the  dead  comrade  lies.  Then  irk 
a  little  while  all  is  over,  and  the  place  where 


JACK    RAYMOND.  233 

they  died  has  forgotten  them.  Rank  weeds  of 
summer  hide  the  withered  husks  and  the  bitter 
seed  within.  But  so  surely  as  spring  comes 
back  when  winter  is  over,  so  surely  shall  our 
soldiers  rise  up  from  the  dead,  and  stand  in 
armoured  ranks  for  battle,  the  weapon  ready 
to  the  hand  and  every  man  in  his  place." 

Long  silence  followed ;  then  she  turned 
with  a  sio-h. 

O 

"  Let  us  go,  children  ;  our  spring  is  not  yet 
come." 

Jack  was  still  silent  as  they  carried  her  in, 
and  his  eyes  were  very  sombre.  Assuredly 
she  would  be  justified  of  her  belief  ;  seed  time 
and  harvest  shall  not  fail.  Yet  what  use, 
when  the  seed  is  so  bitter,  and  all  the  harvest 
is  death  ? 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AFTER  Helen's  death  Jack  spent  two  years 
studying  in  Paris.  He  then  returned  to 
London  for  a  year's  work  in  the  hospitals, 
before  going  to  Vienna,  where  he  intended  to 
finish  his  course  of  study.  Helen's  small 
legacy  would  have  been  enough,  with  his  fru- 
gal habits,  to  cover  his  expenses  till  he  could 
get  a  post  in  some  hospital;  but  he  took  all 
opportunities  to  add  to  it  by  coaching,  micro- 
scope work,  and  library  research,  and  laid  aside 
every  spare  shilling  for  Molly.  He  had  at 
first  hoped  that  she  would  come  to  live  and 
study  with  him  in  Paris,  but  to  all  such  sugges- 
tions she  replied  by  cold  letters  saying  that  she 
"could  not  leave  home."  They  still  corre- 
sponded, but  in  a  formal,  set  way,  like 
strangers.  Jack  had  sometimes  tried  to  break 
down  the  barrier  between  them,  but  met  with 
no  response ;  her  letters  continued  to  arrive  at 

stated  times,  always  worded  in  the  same  con- 

234 


JACK   RAYMOND.  235 

ventional  manner,  always  stiff  with  the  same 
hard  reserve.  Apparently  she  had  been  taught 
to  look  upon  him  as  a  reprobate  whose  kin- 
ship disgraced  her.  The  thought  was  bitter 
to  him  ;  but  he  accepted  it,  as  he  had  accepted 
so  many  things. 

One  day,  soon  after  his  return  from  Paris, 
he  received  a  letter,  addressed  in  Molly's 
hand,  but  with  a  London  post-mark.  It  was 
merely  a  curt  announcement  that  she  had 
come  to  town  to  attend  the  St.  John's  ambu- 
lance course  and  was  now  in  Kensington, 
boarding  with  Aunt  Sarah's  town  relatives, 
and  that  if  he  cared  to  call  on  Sunday  after- 
noon he  would  find  her  in. 

He  went,  of  course,  but  with  a  desolate 
sense  of  the  futility  of  things.  This  was  the 
sister  for  whom  he  had  been  pinching  and  sav- 
ing, working  and  planning  all  these  years; 
and  he  was  going  to  call  upon  her  ceremoni- 
ously, just  as  he  had  to  call,  now  and  then, 
on  the  wives  of  the  professors.  The  only 
difference  was  that  with  his  sister  he  was  less 
sure  of  a  welcome. 

He  found  her  in  a  terrible  Early  Victorian 


236  JACK   RAYMOND. 

drawing-room,  a  tall  girl,  grave  and  self-con- 
tained, surrounded  by  thin-lipped,  censorious 
women,  whose  eyes  inspected  him  with  freezing 
curiosity  as  he  entered.  Her  own  were  stead- 
ily fixed  on  the  floor,  and  the  thick  lashes  hid 
their  expression  ;  but  her  mouth  was  set  hard. 
He  endured  half  an  hour  of  small-talk,  listen- 
ing for  the  rare  sound  of  Molly's  voice.  She 
uttered  only  the  barest  commonplaces,  and 
few  enough  of  them,  leaving  the  conversation 
as  much  as  possible  to  the  ladies  of  the  house  ; 
but  when  she  spoke  the  sound  of  her  deep, 
resonant  contralto,  the  lingering  inflections  of 
her  sweet  West-country  speech,  seemed  to 
him,  amid  these  arid  wastes  of  shabby-genteel 
cockneydom,  like  a  spring  of  water  in  a  thirsty 
land.  She  wore  a  tuft  of  Cornish  heather  at 
her  throat. 

When  he  rose  to  go,  she  turned  to  the 
hostess. 

"  Mrs.  Penning,  I  will  walk  through  the 
park  with  my  brother ;  I  shall  be  back  in 
time  for  supper." 

Mrs.  Penning  bit  her  lip.  The  Vicar,  when 
entrusting  his  niece  to  her  care,  had  warned 


JACK    RAYMOND.  237 

her  that  the  brother,  who  lived  in  London  and 
would  be  likely  to  call,  was  "  not  a  suitable 
companion  for  a  young  girl."  She  had  no  in- 
tention of  letting  Molly  walk  alone  with  this 
black  sheep  of  the  family ;  and  to  send  out  a 
duenna  this  afternoon  would  interfere  with 
arrangements  already  made.  Really,  it  was 
very  thoughtless  of  the  girl. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  leave  the  house  to- 
day, my  dear,"  she  said;  "but  if  you  are 
particularly  anxious  to  go  out  I  am  sure 
Mildred  will  not  mind  accompanying  you. 
You  must  be  back  in  half  an  hour,  though,  as 
she  is  going  to  evening  service." 

"  Thank  you,"  Molly  answered  ;  "  but  I 
need  not  trouble  Mildred." 

"  My  dear !  I  could  not  possibly  let  you 
walk  home  alone.  It  is  not  suitable  for  a 
young  girl,  especially  a  stranger  to  London 
like  you." 

Molly  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  Jack. 
He  interposed  at  once. 

"  I  will  see  my  sister  home." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Penning  nerv- 
ously ;  "  but  I  think  .  .  .  Molly  had  better 


238  JACK   RAYMOND. 

not  go  out  while  she  is  under  my  care,  except 
with  an  older  lady.  Mr.  Raymond  is  very 
particular,  you  know ;  and  I  am  sure  he  would 
not  like  her  to  be  seen  in  the  park  alone  with 
a  gentleman  .  .  . 

"  Even  with  her  brother?" 

Molly  turned  suddenly,  with  shining,  dan- 
gerous eyes. 

"  No,  especially  with  her  brother.  You  are 
very  kind,  Mrs.  Penning  ;  but  my  brother  and 
I  have  some  family  matters  to  discuss,  and  \ve 
would  rather  be  alone.  Shall  we  go,  Jack?" 

They  went  out  in  silence,  while  Mrs. 
Penning  stood  amazed.  On  the  doorstep 
Molly  turned  to  her  brother,  her  nostrils 
quivering. 

"  Those  women  are  spies,"  she  said. 

He  accepted  the  statement  in  grave  silence, 
acquiescing,  and  they  walked  on  without 
further  speech. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  came  to  London 
for?"  she  began  at  last,  without  turning  her 
head. 

"  I  know  nothing,  Molly  ;  not  even  what 
sort  of  sister  I  have." 


JACK    RAYMOND.  239 

"  I  came  to  see  you." 

He  turned,  without  comment,  and  looked 
at  her.  Her  face  was  hard  and  resentful. 

"  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  brother  I  have, 
either,  and  I  thought  it  was  time  to  find 
out.  I  have  more  curiosity  than  you,  it 
seems." 

His  mouth  set  in  a  sudden  line,  and  the 
girl,  watching  him  from  under  level  brows, 
saw  that  she  had  stung  him.  He  paused  an 
instant  before  answering. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  he  said. 

Molly  flashed  another  look  at  him.  The 
quick,  passionate  dilation  of  the  nostrils  trans- 
formed her  face  again. 

"  Are  you  ?  I'm  not  sure  I  am.  It  depends 
on  ..." 

She  broke  off ;  then  plunged  on  recklessly  : 

"  Such  as  you  are,  whatever  you  are,  you're 
the  only  near  relative  I've  got.  Don't  you 
think  we  might  as  well  know  something  about 
each  other  at  first  hand,  now  we're  both  grown 
up,  instead  of  taking  things  for  granted 
through  other  people  ?  Or  do  you  think 
blood  relationships  are  all  rubbish?" 


24o  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"No,  I  don't  think  that;  and,  Molly,  I  have 
taken  nothing  for  granted." 

"Nothing?  Not  when  you  refused  an  in- 
vitation to  come  and  see  me  after — how  long 
was  it  ?  Seven — eight  years  ? " 

"  It  was  an  invitation  to  uncle's  house.  As 
for  seeing  you,  I  had  waited  so  long  for  that 
that  I  could  have  patience  a  little  longer  till 
you  could  come  to  me,  rather  than  .  .  .  ' 

After  a  little  pause  he  added  slowly  : 

"  I  couldn't  go  into  his  house.  If  ever  we 
get  to  know  each  other  well,  you'll  understand 
why  ;  but  I  can't  explain." 

"Jack!"  she  burst  out  suddenly;  "what 
was  it  between  you  and  uncle?  No,  don't 
tell  me  if  you  don't  want  to.  I  had  no  right 
to  ask ;  it's  not  my  business.  But  one  hears 
bits  and  scraps  of  things  ...  all  sorts  of 
things  ..." 

"  You  have  every  right  to  ask,"  he  answered 
gravely.  "  But  I  don't  think  I  have  any  right 
to  tell  you." 

"Do  you  think  that's  fair  to  me?" 

"  No,  but  then  it's  not  a  fair  position  all 
round.  I  think  while  you  are  accepting  any- 


JACK   RAYMOND.  241 

thing  from  uncle  he  has  a  right  to  ask  that 
his  enemies  should  not  tell  you  things  against 
him.  Don't  you  ?" 

"  Does  that  mean  that  you  are  his  enemy  ? 
In  the  real  sense  of  the  word?  Have  you 
nothing  to  tell  me  but  things  against  him  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  And  nothing  about  Aunt  Sarah  ?  Are 
you  her  enemy  too?" 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  about  her,  one  way 
or  the  other." 

"Jack,  whatever  the  thing  was  that  hap- 
pened, it's  more  than  ten  years  ago ;  and  she  lies 
awake  at  night  and  cries  about  you  still.  Last 
winter,  when  she  had  pleurisy,  and  we  thought 
she  was  going  to  die,  she  clung  to  me  and 
kept  on  repeating  that  she  had  'done  her 
best '  for  you.  What  wrong  has  she  done 
you  ?  I  don't  believe  Aunt  Sarah  ever  harmed 
a  fly  in  her  life.  Granted,  you  may  have 
something  against  uncle  ;  but  why  should  you 
hate  her?" 

He  put  the  subject  aside. 

"  I  don't  hate  her." 


242  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"You  despise  her  then,"  the  girl  broke  in 
quickly. 

"That  I  can't  help.  She's  lukewarm,  like 
the  angel  of  Laodicea ;  I  would  she  were  hot 
or  cold." 

Passionate  tears  glittered  in  Molly's  eyes. 

"  You  will  make  me  hate  you  ! "  she  said, 
in  her  suppressed,  vehement  way.  "An  old 
woman,  as  broken  down  and  feeble  as  she  is ; 
and  you  will  let  her  go  on  worrying  and  fret- 
ting over  some  dead-and-gone  quarrel  of  your 
schoolboy  days  .  .  .  She  asked  me  the 
other  day  to  forgive  her  if  she'd  made 
mistakes  in  bringing  me  up.  To  forgive  her, 
the  only  person  in  the  world  that  ever  cared 
for  me  !  She's  got  it  into  her  head  that  you 
were  made  what  she  calls  *  wicked '  by  being 
unhappy  at  home,  and  that  it  was  somehow 
her  fault.  Were  you  so  unhappy,  Jack?" 

"Unhappy!"  He  repeated  the  word  with 
a  quick  throb  in  his  voice  that  made  the  girl 
start  and  look  round  at  him.  "  Look  here, 
Molly,"  he  went  on  with  evident  effort, 
"what's  the  use  of  raking  up  all  this?  I've 
nothing  against  Aunt  Sarah,  except  that  she 


JACK   RAYMOND.  243 

was  a  coward  and  passed  by  on  the  other 
side.  Anyhow,  if  she's  been  kind  to  you,  I'm 
grateful  to  her  for  that,  and  she  needn't  worry 
about  the  rest.  As  for  uncle,  I  haven't  any- 
thing to  say  except  what's  better  unsaid.  If 
you  want  to  know  why  I  couldn't  come  to  the 
house — well,  I  tried  to  kill  him  once,  and 
that's  reason  enough." 

"  I  asked  him  about  it  one  day,  and  he  told 
me  you  ... 

"  Don't !  "  he  interrupted.  "  I  don't  want 
to  hear  anything  from  you,  or  to  tell  you  any- 
thing. Don't  get  your  impressions  of  him 
from  me — they  wouldn't  be  just  And  judge 
of  me  by  what  you  see  yourself,  not  by  what 
any  one  has  told  you ;  if  I'm  a  bad  lot  you'll 
soon  find  it  out  without  any  telling." 

She  turned  to   him  with  a   smile.     There 
was  a  peculiar  charm  in  this  sudden  softening  ' 
of  the  stern,  untried  face. 

"  No  one  told  me  you  were  bad ;  and  if  they 
did,  I  shouldn't  believe  it  at  second  hand. 
I  do  think  you  have  a  long  memory ;  but 
that's  a  family  failing.  There  are  some  things 
I  remember  ,  " 


244  JACK    RAYMOND. 

She  broke  off. 

"Tiddles?"  he  asked. 

Her  face  lit  up  suddenly,  wonderfully. 
"  How  did  you  know  ? " 

Then  they  both  laughed,  and  in  the  silence 
that  followed  their  kinship  was  real  to  them 
for  the  first  time. 

"  He  is  a  most  unhappy  man,"  she  said, 
looking  out  across  the  green  space  with 
sombre,  thoughtful  eyes.  "  He  has  spent  his 
life  in  trying  to  shape  the  souls  of  his  fellow 
creatures ;  and  there's  not  one  living  thing 
that  loves  or  respects  him." 

"  Except  Aunt  Sarah   .   .    . 

"  Her  life  has  been  spent  in  keeping  up  a 
fiction.  She's  getting  old  now,  and  it's  wear- 
ing thin ;  and  she's  scared  at  the  truth  under- 
neath it,  and  miserable." 

"  The  truth  ?  " 

"That  she  despises  him  in  her  heart." 

"Was  that  why  you  couldn't  come  to 
Paris?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his.  "  You're 
good  at  understanding.  I  couldn't  leave  her; 
you  don't  know  what  a  desolate  house  it  is. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  245 

They  go  through  life  avoiding  each  other's 
eyes ;  they  are  like  people  haunted  by 
a  ghost.  Uncle  keeps  up  an  elaborate 
pretence  of  having  forgotten  that  you 
ever  existed,  and  she  pretends  he's  not  pre- 
tending." 

"And  you?" 

"  I  pretend  not  to  see.  And  the  neighbours 
pretend  there  was  never  any  old  scandal 
about  you.  We  all  pretend." 

"  Molly,  don't  you  see  how  all  that  will 
end?  Some  day  you'll  come  to  a  split  with 
uncle,  a  deadly  split.  That's  inevitable, 
because  you're  a  live  human  creature." 

"  Possibly ;  but  it  won't  be  in  her  life- 
time." 

"She's  not  so  old;  she  may  live  another 
thirty  years.  And  what  do  you  suppose  she'd 
do  then?" 

"Whatever  he  told  her  to  do." 

"  And  if  he  told  her  to  turn  you  out  ?" 

"  She'd  do  it,  of  course.  But  it  would  kill 
her.  And  it  won't  happen.  Remember,  I'm 
just  all  she's  got  in  the  world,  even  if  she  is 
lukewarm.  And  he  knows  that ;  he's  grateful 


246  JACK    RAYMOND. 

to  me  for  sticking  to  her.  Poor  thing,  she 
can't  help  it  if  she  was  born  that  way  ;  I  don't 
suppose  the  man  in  Laodicea  could.  Why 
didn't  the  Lord  give  him  more  courage, 
instead  of  abusing  him  for  being  a  coward?" 

He  laughed  softly.  "  At  least  no  one  will 
accuse  you  of  being  '  born  that  way/  my 
dear." 

They  walked  back  like  old  friends,  talking 
of  his  plans  for  future  work.  Since  Helen 
died  he  had  not  spoken  so  confidentially  to 
any  one. 

For  the  next  month  London  wore  a  sunny 
face  to  Jack.  He  relaxed  the  grind  of  his 
work  a  little,  and  spent  happy  afternoons 
wandering  about  Westminster  Abbey  and  the 
National  Gallery  with  Molly.  Sometimes, 
however,  they  would  find  themselves  saddled 
with  Mildred  Penning,  and  all  their  pleasure 
froze  to  death  under  hard,  inquisitive,  disap- 
proving eyes.  It  was  in  order  to  escape  from 
her  that  Molly  one  day  proposed  spending 
the  next  Saturday  afternoon  at  Jack's  lodg- 
ings. After  a  short  and  stormy  scene  with 
Mrs.  Penning,  the  brother  and  sister  climbed 


JACK    RAYMOND.  247 

on  to  the  roof  of  an  omnibus  together, 
unchaperoned. 

"  I  suppose  she'll  write  to  uncle  and  com- 
plain of  you  ?"  said  Jack.  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

"  I  dare  say.  I've  given  up  a  good  deal  for 
uncle ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  give  up  my  only 
brother  for  him,  and  the  sooner  he  under- 
stands that  the  better.  He'll  be  angry  for  a 
bit,  and  then  give  in.  He  always  does  when 
he  sees  I  really  mean  a  thing." 

Jack's  heart  beat  quicker  as  he  took  out  his 
latch-key.  The  thing  that  he  had  longed  for, 
toiled  for,  waited  for,  the  close,  intimate 
sister-love,  had  become  an  actual  possibility  at 
last.  If  only  for  one  afternoon  he  would  have 
her  alone  with  him,  by  his  fire,  a  vivid 
presence  in  his  life. 

"Come  in,  Molly;  I've  only  a  bed-sitting- 
room,  you  know.  Oh,  Mrs.  Smith  has  made 
a  fire  !  That  was  thoughtful  of  her." 

Then  he  drew  back  suddenly  and  stood  on 
the  threshold,  staring  blankly  into  the  room. 

Theo  was  stretched  at  full-length  on  the 
hearth  rug,  watching  the  dance  of  shadows  on 


248  JACK   RAYMOND. 

the  fire-lit  ceiling.  The  hot  glow  of  the  red 
coals  shone  on  his  head ;  on  the  slim,  strong 
hands  with  their  blunted  finger-tips ;  on  the 
characteristic,  irregular  lines  of  chin  and  brow. 
He  seemed  to  bask  in  the  heat  like  a  sunned 
snake. 

-Hullo,  Jack!" 

Even  in  the  first  moment  of  surprise  Jack 
was  conscious  once  more  of  the  musician's 
splendid  indolence  of  posture  and  freedom  of 
movement.  Theo  never  needed  to  scramble 
to  his  feet ;  getting  up,  after  lying  flat  on  the 
floor,  he  seemed  merely  to  change  one  ap- 
propriate and  graceful  attitude  for  another. 

"  My  sister,"  said  Jack.    "  Theodore  Mirski." 

His  own  voice  sounded  dull  and  harsh  in  his 
ears.  He  had  already  seen  the  stiffening  and 
hardening  of  Molly's  face  ;  the  instant  reserve 
in  which  she  had  enwrapped  herself ;  and  his 
heart  was  as  lead  within  him. 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  Vienna,"  he  said. 

"  Joachim  can't  come,  and  they  telegraphed, 
asking  me  to  play  instead  of  him  at  St. 
James's  Hall  to-morrow.  I  was  glad  enough 
of  the  chance  to  see  you.  Why,  Jack,  I  never 


JACK    RAYMOND.  249 

saw  you  look  so  well,  or  so  sulky.  Don't  you 
want  me  ?  You  can  turn  me  out,  Miss  Ray- 
mond, if  I'm  in  the  way." 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  I  that  am  in  the  way,"  said 
Molly.  Her  voice  fell  like  a  little  icicle  into 
their  midst,  chilling  even  Theo.  He  muttered 
some  polite  commonplace  with  a  startled 
glance  at  her ;  and  they  sat  down,  decorously 
stiff  and  depressed. 

Jack  did  his  conscientious  best  to  smooth 
away  the  queer  awkwardness  between  his 
visitors.  But,  looking  from  Molly  to  Theo 
and  back  again  to  Molly,  he  realised  how 
hopeless  it  was.  These  two,  between  whom 
lay  all  his  personal  life,  appeared  incompati- 
bility personified ;  the  artist,  half  angel,  half 
baby,  to  whom  he  must  be  never-failing 
mother  and  devotee,  guardian  and  slave;  and 
the  unformed,  intolerant,  passionate  little 
Puritan  girl  who  held  him  at  arm's  length, 
and  for  whose  sake  he  would  have  died.  He 
was  as  chained  to  both  of  them,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  their  mutual  repulsion  must  tear 
him  piecemeal. 

The  miserable  effort  at  small-talk  failed  at 


250  JACK    RAYMOND. 

last,  hopelessly,  and  Jack  looked  up  from  the 
red  coals  with  a  desperate  feeling  that  some- 
thing must  be  done  to  end  the  silence  before 
it  became  unbearable.  Theo's  face  was  curi- 
ously agitated  ;  Molly's,  inscrutable  and  grave. 
He  looked  round  the  room,  and  the  violin- 
case,  lying  on  the  sofa,  caught  his  eyes. 

"  Theo,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  you'd  play.  My 
sister  has  never  heard  you." 

The  musician  rose  at  once,  and  fetched  his 
instrument.  He  seemed  to  find  the  suggestion 
a  relief. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  curling 
himself  down  on  the  hearth  rug  with  the  violin 
against  his  neck.  "  Folk-songs  ?  They  do-n't 
want  accompaniments." 

"  Slavonic  ones,  if  you  will.  Did  you  ever 
hear  a  Polish  folk-song,  Molly?" 

"You  know  I've  never  heard  anything." 

She  leaned  back,  drawing  the  fire-screen 
forwards ;  her  brow  a  little  contracted,  her 
eyes  grave  and  wide  in  a  shadowed,  listening 
face,  while  the  folk-songs  trailed  their  low 
sound  through  the  half-darkened  room  like 
disembodied  ghosts  of  music  buried  long  ago. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  251 

"Jack,"  said  Theo,  laying  the  violin  down 
on  his  knee,  "do  you  remember  a  fancy 
mother  had  just  before  she  died,  about  the 
crocus-flowers  in  the  grass?  Well,  I  .  .  . 
I've  been  seeing  that  in  my  head  lately,  and 
it's  coming  into  tune.  I  think  it's  going  to  be 
for  orchestra,  I'm  not  sure  yet ;  but  I  must 
play  you  some  bits.  Miss  Raymond,  did  you 
ever  look  at  a  crocus, — I  mean,  really  look 
at  it?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  from  the  shadow  of 
the  screen.  "  But  not  often.  You  can  look 
at  a  dicotyledonous  flower  every  day,  and  be 
the  happier  for  it ;  but  I'm  afraid  of  the  spear- 
leaved  things  that  grow  in  threes ;  they're  like 
the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword,  and  all  my 
gates  are  shut." 

Her  brother  glanced  round  at  her  in  won- 
der ;  it  was  as  if  Helen  had  spoken.  She  had 
turned  her  head  now,  so  that  the  fire-light 
shone  on  her  face.  She  and  Theo  were  look- 
ing at  each  other  silently,  with  a  long  look, 
troubled,  searching,  and  unsatisfied  ;  the  look 
of  those  who  see  into  deep  chasms  and  who 
are  afraid. 


25 2  JACK    RAYMOND. 

Theo  began  to  play ;  very  softly,  his  eyes 
still  on  the  girl's  face.  After  a  while  he 
drifted  unconsciously  into  improvisation, 
pausing  now  and  then  with  lifted  bow  and 
filling  in  the  spaces  with  low,  rhythmic  speech. 
The  violin,  with  its  faint  wailing,  its  dim,  in- 
adequate murmur;  the  flicker  of  the  fire  ;  the 
shabby,  dingy,  lodging-house  room  ;  all  lost 
their  separate  characters,  merged  into  a  com- 
mon background  of  dreams.  To  listeners 
and  artist  alike,  the  glittering  spears  of  vis- 
ionary warriors,  the  sight  and  sound  of  a 
great  army  marching,  were  an  actual  pres- 
ence, living  and  immense. 

Silence  followed,  and  Theo  sat  with  bent 
head,  trembling  a  little,  the  violin  still  in  his 
hand.  Molly  was  again  in  shadow,  motion- 
less as  if  asleep  with  open  eyes.  It  was  Jack 
who  spoke  first,  rising  to  light  the  lamp. 

"  Old  man,"  he  said,  "  there's  one  thing 
you  might  try  to  remember  now  and  then." 

"  Yes  ?"  Theo  murmured  vaguely.  He  had 
still  not  come  back  to  earth. 

"Only  t'nat  ordinary  mortals  are  your  fel- 
low creatures,  after  all,  and  can  sometimes 


JACK    RAYMOND.  253 

see  when  you  guide  their  eyes,  even  though 
they're  not  crowned  kings  by  right  divine." 

Molly  made  a  sudden  passionate  movement, 
as  though  he  had  hurt  her.  Theo  started  up, 
a  sort  of  horror  in  his  face. 

"'Kings  by  .  .  .'  Jack,  how  can  you! 
Just  because  I  can  see  things  in  my  head ! 
Do  you  think  I  wouldn't  give  it  all — fiddle 
and  everything — to  do  things  and  be  things 
like  you?  What's  nearer  to  being  king  by 
right  divine — to  see  God's  warrior  flowers,  or 
to  be  as  they  are?  What  am  I  but  a  fiddle?" 

He  turned  away,  his  voice  quivering  with 
bitter  discouragement,  as  with  suppressed 
tears.  Molly  raised  her  head  slowly  and 
looked  at  her  brother.  His  face  was  solemn, 
even  to  sternness;  but  the  next  instant  he 
caught  sight  of  his  own  image  in  the  looking- 
glass,  and  burst  out  laughing,  like  a  schoolboy 
seized  by  a  humorous  idea.  It  struck  upon 
her  with  a  sudden  sense  of  tragedy,  that  she 
had  never  heard  him  laugh  that  way  when 
they  were  children. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Moll,  for  an 
artist's  imagination?  I  look  like  a  crocus, 


254  JACK   RAYMOND. 

don't  I,  with  this  mug !  Theo,  put  the  kettle 
on,  my  son  ;  it's  tea-time ;  and  don't  be  an 
unmitigated  ass,  if  you  can  help  it.  Why, 
what's  become  of  the  butter  ?  And  there  are 
no  biscuits  either.  Have  you  eaten  them 
all?" 

He  was  rummaging  in  the  cupboard. 

"  Not  quite  all.  The  landlady's  cat  had 
some.  We  held  a  feast  here  while  I  waited 
for  you.  It  was  the  cat  that  strewed 
crumbs  all  over  the  floor;  I  was  too  hungry 
to  waste  them  that  way  ;  I've  had  nothing  to 
eat  since  breakfast  in  Paris  this  morning." 

"  Why  didn't  you  get  lunch  on  the  boat?" 

"  I  had  no  money ;  only  my  cab-fare  and 
two-pence  over.  I  wanted  to  ask  the  waiter 
for  a  penny  roll,  but  he  looked  so  superior." 

Jack  turned  round  with  an  accusing  face. 

"  What  did  you  do  with  Hauptmann's  last 
cheque?" 

"  Oh,  I    ...    don't  know." 

"  I  do,"  said  Jack  grimly.  "  Next  time  a 
deserving  applicant  comes  to  you  with  a 
pathetic  story,  hand  him  over  to  me,  and  I'll 
see  he  leaves  you  a  little  to  go  on  with.  You 


JACK   RAYMOND.  255 

mean  well,  Theo,  but  you're  a  born  fool,  and 
oughtn't  to  be  trusted  with  a  cheque-book. 
There,  sit  still,  and  I'll  get  you  something  to 
eat.  You'll  have  to  put  up  here  for  to-night ; 
and  wire  to  Hauptmann  for  more  money 
to-morrow." 

He  went  out,  leaving  Theo  and  Molly 
silent  by  the  fire.  The  deadly  embarrassment 
of  an  hour  ago  had  taken  hold  upon  them 
again. 

"You  know  my  brother  better  than  I  do," 
she  said  suddenly,  looking  up  with  serious 
eyes.  "  I  didn't  understand  what  you  meant 
just  now." 

He  smiled  ;  then  grew  suddenly  grave. 

"  And  I  can't  explain,  though  you'll  realise 
it  yourself  when  you  know  him  better.  I 
think  what  I  meant  is  that  he's  so  ... 
unconscious." 

"  Unconscious?" 

"Yes;  like  a  thing  that  works  by  the  laws 
of  its  own  nature,  not  by  anybody's  ethical 
codes.  Don't  you  see  ?  For  instance  .  .  . 
well,  take  justice ;  in  him  it's  not  a  virtue  to 
be  cultivated ;  it's  what  music  is  to  me,  an 


256  JACK   RAYMOND. 

inborn  passion  eternally  unsatisfied.  That's 
why  he  seems  to  me  the  saddest  phenomenon 
I  know.  He'll  go  on  .wanting  justice  all  his 
life,  and  there's  no  such  thing  to  be  had." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  looking  away 
from  her  ;  then  asked  under  his  breath  : 

"And  all  your  gates  are  shut?" 

She  rose,  putting  her  hands  up  as  if  to  stop 
him ;  then  let  them  fall  again  and  turned 
away,  with  a  broad  and  mournful  recklessness. 

"  Yes,  all ;  and  there  is  no  one  that  has  the 
key." 

She  crossed  to  the  window,  and  stood  with 
her  back  to  him,  looking  out.  Jack,  coming 
in  with  his  paper  packages,  found  her  so,  and 
sighed  under  his  breath  as  he  put  the  eggs  on 
to  boil.  He  had  come  so  near  to  having  a 
sister ;  and  now  Theo  had  scared  her  in  the 
moment  of  her  shy  unfolding,  and  she  had 
shrunk  again  into  her  shell,  like  any  snail. 
She  would  go  back  to  Porthcarrick  a  stranger, 
as  she  had  come ;  and  he  would  lose  the 
friend  he  needed,  because  of  the  friend  who 
needed  him. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DURING  the  months  which  he  spent  in 
Vienna,  Jack  heard  almost  nothing  of  his 
sister.  He  had  parted  from  her  at  Padding- 
ton  Station  with  a  lingering  hope  that  the 
friendship  born  during  her  visit  to  London 
would  live  and  grow ;  but  from  the  moment 
of  her  return  to  Porthcarrick  she  had  slipped 
back  into  the  old,  stiff  relationship.  Her 
letters,  rare  and  short,  seemed  to  have  been 
written  by  a  school-girl,  with  the  governess 
looking  over  her  shoulder.  After  some  time 
they  stopped  altogether. 

The  bitterness  of  his  disappointment  was 
all  the  keener  for  the  short  bright  month  of 
mutual  confidence.  He  had  seen  enough  of 
the  girl's  inner  self  to  have  no  doubt  that  she 
was  wasting  fine  powers  in  the  cramped 
Porthcarrick  life,  and  that  she  herself  was 
conscious  of  its  narrowness,  its  petty,  jarring 
hypocrisy.  The  look  on  her  face  was  alone 

257 


258  JACK   RAYMOND. 

enough  to  show  that  she  was  restless  and 
unhappy ;  and  he  had  more  evidence  than 
that.  Perhaps,  but  for  Theo,  he  might  have 
been  able  to  help  her,  to  win  her  away  from 
the  stultifying  influences  of  the  Vicarage,  or  at 
least  to  support  her  in  her  unequal  struggle 
for  a  little  personal  freedom,  for  a  wider,  more 
useful,  more  self-respecting  life.  But  poor 
Theo,  the  gentlest,  sunniest-natured  thing 
alive,  had  innocently  ruined  all.  He  seemed 
to  have  aroused  in  her  some  shrinking,  fierce 
antipathy ;  Theo,  who  made  friends  with 
every  stray  dog  in  the  street ;  who  surely  had 
never  before,  in  all  his  careless,  beautiful  life, 
been  disliked  by  anything  that  breathed. 

When  Jack  left  Vienna  he  went  to  Edin- 
burgh to  take  his  degree.  This  accom- 
plished, creditably,  but  without  special  hon- 
ours, he  returned  to  London  and  applied 
for  hospital  work,  which  he  at  once  obtained. 
There  was,  indeed,  not  much  fear  of  his  lack- 
ing employment ;  several  professors  who  had 
known  him  as  a  student  had  promised  to 
recommend  him  in  case  of  his  applying  for  a 
vacancy.  He  was  offered  the  choice  of  two 


JACK   RAYMOND.  259 

posts,  and  chose  the  one  with  the  smaller 
salary,  as  it  gave  him  better  opportunities  for 
study,  and  had  the  further  advantage  of  being 
non-resident. 

He  settled  down  in  shabby  Bloomsbury 
lodgings,  and  worked  like  a  cart-horse,  trying 
to  fill  up  every  moment  with  vehement  effort 
or  deadening  fatigue,  that  he  might  not  feel 
the  dread  and  blankness  of  his  isolation.  He 
was  as  one  who  enters  from  black  passages 
into  a  lighted  room,  and  shuts  the  door  in 
haste  because  of  the  outer  darkness  whose 
ragged  fringes  would  trail  in  behind  him. 
Helen  had  saved  him  from  the  domination  of 
fear  ;  and  in  her  healing  presence  he  had  for- 
gotten to  be  accurst ;  but  now  that  she  had 
left  him  alone,  the  horror  of  his  childhood 
stretched  out  chill  finger-tips  of  memories 
and  dreams  to  touch  him  unaware.  While 
at  work  he  was  never  afraid ;  but  he  still 
dared  not  face  leisure  and  loneliness  to- 
gether. 

Lonely,  indeed,  he  was  exceedingly.  Theo 
was  on  a  concert  tour  in  America,  and  from 
there  was  to  go  on  to  Australia  and  New 


260  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Zealand ;  he  would  be  away  a  year.  For 
that  matter,  had  he  been  in  London,  his  pres- 
ence would  have  been  small  help  to  Jack.  A 
kind  of  cloud  had  fallen  upon  their  friend- 
ship ;  neither  less  affectionate  nor  less  sin- 
cere than  before,  it  had  of  late  been  dis- 
turbed and  darkened,  on  Theo's  side  by  a 
certain  nervous  irritability,  on  Jack's  by  a 
deep  and  melancholy  sense,  steadily  growing 
within  him,  of  his  incapacity  to  understand 
a  nature  so  different  from  his  own.  With 
Helen  he  had  always  been  able  to  under- 
stand. 

Early  in  March  violent  storms  of  wind  and 
rain  swept  over  London,  with  a  sudden  fall 
of  temperature  which  caused  much  sickness 
and  distress  and,  in  consequence,  very  heavy 
work  at  the  hospital.  One  evening,  as  Jack 
struggled  home,  late  and  weary,  through  a 
blinding  downpour  whose  parallel  slanting 
threads  gleamed  wickedly  in  the  flickering 
lamp-light,  he  caught  sight  of  a  woman's 
figure  clinging  to  an  area  railing,  the  cape  of 
a  drenched  cloak  flapping  round  head  and 
shoulders.  He  crossed  the  street  to  offer 


JACK   RAYMOND.  261 

help  against  the  savage  wind ;  but  when  he 
reached  the  opposite  pavement  the  woman 
had  turned  a  corner  and  disappeared. 

He  got  home  at  last,  changed  his  wet 
clothes,  and  sat  down  by  a  smoky  fire  to  wait 
for  dinner.  Possibly  because  he  was  tired 
and  cold,  he  found  it  to-night  more  difficult 
than  usual  to  shake  off  the  depression  which 
always  lay  in  wait  to  spring  upon  him 
whenever  he  was  off  his  guard.  He  sat 
idle,  a  rare  thing  with  him,  and  listened  to 
the  angry  hissing  of  rain-drops  falling  down 
the  chimney  on  to  the  hot  coals. 

"A  woman  has  been  here  enquiring  for 
you,"  said  the  landlady,  bringing  in  the  tray. 

"  In  this  weather  ?     Who  is  it  ?" 

"  She  wouldn't  give  her  name ;  said  she'd 
call  again.  She's  been  walking  up  and  down 
the  street  waiting  for  you.  She  looks  very 
bad." 

"  A  patient,  walking  up  and  down  on  such 
a  night  !  What  was  she  like  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  see  ;  she  was  so  muffled  up, 
and  drenched  to  the  skin.  She's  queer  some- 
how,— all  draggled  and  shivering  and 


262  JACK   RAYMOND. 

splashed  with  mud,  and  her  hair  half  tum- 
bling down,  and  yet  dressed  like  a  lady.  I 
should  think  she's  a  bit  crazed." 

"  Or  else  in  trouble.  It  must  be  some- 
thing serious  for  her  to  ... 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  street  door, 
evidently  with  a  shaking  hand. 

"  There  she  is,"  said  the  landlady.  "Shall 
she  come  in,  sir?" 

"  Of  course." 

The  woman  came  in  with  a  swishing  sound 
of  wet  skirts  dragging  round  her  feet,  and 
stopped  short  in  the  half-light  near  the  door. 
The  landlady,  after  one  quick,  suspicious 
glance,  went  away,  shaking  her  head. 

"I'm  sorry  I  was  out  when  you  called," 
Jack  began,  rising. 

He  could  not  see  what  his  visitor  was  like, 
for  she  had  put  up  an  arm  before  her  eyes  as 
though  the  lamp-light  dazzled  her;  but  he 
recognised  the  cloak  which  he  had  seen  flap- 
ping by  the  area  gate. 

"  You  must  be  wet  through,"  he  said. 
"  You  wished  to  see  me  .  .  .  ?" 

There  he  broke  off  and  drew  back  a  step. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  263 

The  woman  came  towards  him  slowly,  with 
a  stumbling,  swaying  movement  as  though 
she  were  blindfolded.  Little  streams  of 
water  trickled  from  her  skirt,  from  her  cloak, 
from  the  tumbled  mass  of  hair  that  had 
slipped  down  on  to  her  shoulder.  The  hood 
of  her  cloak  was  drawn  over  her  head ;  but 
as  she  dropped  her  arm  he  saw  that  the  half- 
hidden  face  was  white  and  wild  and  haggard, 
and  that  the  brow  was  broad  and  very 
level. 

"  Molly ! "  he  cried. 

She  pushed  back  her  hood  and  stared  at 
him  vacantly.  She  made  two  or  three  efforts 
to  speak  before  any  sound  came  from  her 
lips. 

"Yes,"  she  said  ;  "you  were  quite  right." 
"Molly!     How  did  you   .   .    .  ?" 
"  Uncle  has  turned  me  out  of  the  house. 
You  said  he  would.     I  came  to  you   ...    I 
hadn't  anywhere  else  to  go.     Will  you  put 
me  up  for  a  night  or   two   .    .    .    till    I    can 
think   ...    of  something   .    .    .    make  some 
.    .    .    arrangement    .    .    .     I'm      tired    .    .    . 
sleepy   ...    I   can't  .  .  .  see   .    .   . 


264  JACK    RAYMOND. 

Her  voice  was  sinking  into  an  unintelli- 
gible murmur.  He  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"  Sit  down.  You  shall  tell  me  about  it 
afterwards.  You  must  get  off  these  wet 
things  and  .  .  ." 

His  touch  seemed  to  rouse  her;  she  shook 
her  arm  free. 

"  I  won't  sit  down  till  you  understand. 
How  do  I  know  you'll  take  me  in  ?  .  .  .  I 
tell  you,  he  has  turned  me  out  because  .  .  .  ' 

"  Good  God,  child,  what  do  I  care  why ! 
Take  this  cloak  off ;  one  could  wring  a 
gallon  of  water  out  of  it." 

He  was  unbuttoning  the  cloak.  She  flung 
it  off  suddenly  and  stepped  into  the  light. 

"  Look,"  she  said. 

He  stood  still,  looking  at  her  figure ;  a 
moment  passed  before  the  truth  flashed  on 
him.  She  turned  away  with  a  slow,  grave 
gesture,  and  stooped  to  pick  up  the  wet  heap 
lying  on  the  floor ;  but  he  snatched  it  out  of 
her  hand  with  a  cry. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  little  girl  .  .  .  and  at 
uncle's  mercy ! " 

He  caught  her  up  in  a  sudden  passion  of 


JACK   RAYMOND.  265 

tenderness,  and,  laying  her  on  the  sofa,  cov- 
ered her  hands  with  kisses.  His  vehement 
emotion  roused  no  responding  thrill  in  her; 
she  only  shivered  faintly,  passive  in  his 
arms.  He  came  to  his  senses  after  a 
moment. 

"  How  cold  you  are  !  You  must  get  off  all 
these  things  at  once.  Wait,  I'll  lock  the 
door  and  go  into  the  bedroom  while  you 
change  by  the  fire.  I'll  fetch  you  some 
clean  things ;  you'll  have  to  manage  with 
underclothes  of  mine  and  the  blankets.  Let 
me  get  your  boots  off  first ;  I  must  cut  them, 
I  think." 

When  he  had  drawn  the  sofa  to  the  fire 
and  laid  her  on  it,  rolled  up  in  the  rug  from 
his  bed,  he  ran  downstairs  for  hot-water  bot- 
tles, boiling  milk,  and  brandy.  Coming  back 
he  found  her  in  a  kind  of  stupor,  neither 
fainting  nor  asleep,  but  too  much  dazed  with 
cold  and  fatigue  to  understand  when  spoken 
to.  After  some  time  a  faint  tinge  of  natural 
colour  came  back  into  her  blue  lips.  She 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  "did  you  understand?" 


266  JACK    KAYMUNU. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa, 
chafing  her  hands.  He  bent  down  and  kissed 
first  one  and  then  the  other. 

"  Yes,  my  darling." 

"  And  you   .    .    .    will  take  me  in  ?  " 

He  pushed  the  damp  hair  back  from  her 
forehead. 

"  Why,  you  little  goose  !  Drink  some  hot 
milk  and  don't  talk  nonsense." 

"No — no!"  She  drew  herself  away  from 
him  and  sat  up,  her  eyes  glittering.  "  You 
want  to  be  merciful,  like  Aunt  Sarah.  She 
tried  to  interfere  yesterday — talked  to  uncle 
about  the  woman  taken  in  adultery  and  the 
one  sinner  that  repenteth  .  .  .  I've  nothing 
to  repent  of :  I'm  not  ashamed.  You  have  to 
understand  that  before  you  take  me  in.  My 
life  is  my  own  to  keep  or  give  away ;  and  if  I 
choose  to  ruin  it  and  pay  the  cost  .  .  . 

"You  shall  tell  me  all  that  afterwards, 
dear.  Theories  will  keep,  and  your  supper 
won't.  Take  this  while  it's  hot." 

She  took  the  cup  eagerly  and  tried  to 
drink.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  broke 
down.  He  knelt  beside  the  sofa,  holding  her 


JACK    RAYMOND.  267 

close  against  him  ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
hours  passed  while  she  sobbed  on  his  neck. 
When  she  had  grown  quiet  at  last,  he  forced 
a  little  food  on  her  with  gentle  persistence. 

"  When  did  you  last  have  anything  to 
eat?" 

"I  .  .  .  forget.  Some  time  yesterday. 
They  found  out  in  the  afternoon  ...  I 
think  ;  or  was  it  evening  ?  .  .  .  Ah,  yes ;  it 
was  dark.  I  tried  to  find  some  water  in  the 
night ;  ...  it  was  so  cold  on  the  moor,  and 
my  throat  burned  ...  I  suppose  it  was  the 
gale  ...  I  found  a  rain-pool  .  .  .  but 
the  water  smelt  of  graves.  Everything  smelt 
of  graves  .  .  .  and  the  sleet  made  me  giddy 
...  I  fell  so  many  times  .  .  .  That's  why 
my  hands  are  cut  about  this  way  .  .  .  ' 

"Were  you  out  on  the  moor  all  night?" 
He  spoke  in  a  suppressed  voice,  harsh  and 
low. 

"Yes  ...  I  ...  I  got  to  Penrhyn  in 
the  morning  and  caught  the  early  train  .  .  . 
you  know,  the  cheap  one.  I  was  lucky, 
wasn't  I  ?  I  shouldn't  have  had  money 
enough  for  the  express." 


268  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  turned  you  out  on 
to  the  moor  alone,  at  night,  in  the  storm,  with 
no  money  ?" 

"  It  was  because  I  wouldn't  answer  his 
questions.  Aunt  Sarah  gave  me  a  few  shil- 
lings that  she  had  over  from  something.  She 
cried  so  bitterly,  poor  thing.  And  I  had  half 
a  sovereign.  I  was  threepence  short  for  the 
railway  ticket,  but  I  had  some  postage- 
stamps  .  .  .  ' 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  bruise  on  your 
forehead?"  he  interrupted.  Her  left  temple 
was  cut  and  swollen ;  the  blow,  an  inch  lower, 
might  have  killed  her. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  silently 
bared  her  right  arm.  It  was  stamped  below 
the  elbow  with  blue  finger-marks. 

"I  ...  don't  think  he  meant  it,"  she 
said  softly ;  and  drew  the  sleeve  down  again. 

"  He  struck  you?"  Jack  asked  in  the  same 
dead  voice. 

"  He  was  trying  to  make  me  speak.  I  had 
refused  to  tell  him  .  .  .  who  the  father  is. 
He  seemed  to  lose  his  senses  bit  by  bit.  He 
kept  on  repeating:  'Who?'  and  wrenching 


JACK   RAYMOND.  269 

my  arm  harder  and  harder.  .  .  Then  Aunt 
Sarah  tried  to  stop  him  .  .  .  and  he 
knocked  me  down  .  .  . 

"  There,  that's  enough." 

She  turned  at  the  strange  sound  of  her 
brother's  voice  ;  and  looked  at  him.  She  had 
never  seen  before  how  he  looked  when  he  was 
angry ;  and  the  sight  chilled  her  into  silence. 

"  You'd  better  not  tell  me  any  more  about 
uncle,"  he  said  presently,  with  his  habitual 
quiet  manner.  "  We  came  pretty  near  to 
killing  each  other  once,  you  know;  and  I  have 
you  to  look  after  now.  Suppose  we  make  a 
compact  not  to  mention  him  again.  I  think 
I  must  get  your  bed  ready  now,  dear ;  and  to- 
morrow we'll  talk  over  our  plans." 

"  But  where  will  you  sleep  if  I  take  your 
room  ?" 

"  Here,  on  the  sofa,  of  course.  We'll  fit  in 
this  way  for  a  week  or  two,  and  then  get 
other  lodgings.  As  soon  as  you  are  well 
enough,  you  must  see  about  some  clothes." 

"  But,  Jack,  I  can't  stay  here,  on  your 
hands.  It's  all  very  well  for  one  night,  but  I 
must  find  some  work  to-morrow." 


2 7o  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  Dearest,  work  is  not  so  easy  to  find  all  at 
once ;  and  you're  not  in  a  state  to  do  it,  if  it 
were.  Rest  a  few  days  and  then  we'll  see." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  understand !  There  are 
more  than  two  months  still  .  .  .  and  when 
the  time  comes  .  .  .  Do  you  think  they'll 
take  me  in  at  any  hospital,  Jack?  " 

He  turned  round,  shaken  with  mortal  fear. 

"  Molly,  you're  not  going  to  leave  me  ?  " 

"  You  wouldn't  have  me  stay  here  and  be  a 
burden  on  you  till  the  child  is  born  ?  No,  no  ; 
not  for  the  world." 

"Why  not ?  Have  they  made  you  hate  me 
so  that  you  can't  come  to  me  when  you  want 
help  ?  " 

"  You  see,  I  came ;  I  don't  know  why.  I 
.  .  .  thought,  somehow,  you  wouldn't  turn 
me  away.  If  you  had,  I  should  have  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  so  many  joys  in  life 
that  I  can  afford  to  turn  away  the  sunlight 
when  it  comes  in  at  my  door  ?  Molly, 
Molly  !  I've  had  to  live  without  you  all  these 
years.  Now  you're  here,  and  your  first 
thought  is  to  go  away  again.  I  can't  give 
you  up.  Stay  till  it's  over,  anyhow  ;  if  you 


JACK   RAYMOND.  271 

must  go  then,  at  least  I  shall  have  had  you 
for  a  little  while." 

"  You  want  me,  really  ?  For  yourself  ? 
Not  just  out  of  pity  ?  I  don't  want  anybody's 
pity." 

He  laughed,  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

"Then  you'll  stay?" 

"  Wait  a  minute  ! "  She  pushed  him  back, 
and  her  face  grew  suddenly  hard.  "  If  I  am 
to  stay  with  you,  you  must  promise  me  never 
to  ask  who  the  man  is,  never  to  ask  any  ques- 
tions at  all." 

"  Molly,  I  shan't  look  a  gift-horse  in  the 
mouth  !  If  ever  he  takes  you  from  me,  I 
shall  know  him  then  ;  and  if  not  .  .  .  ' 

"That  will  never  happen.  He  has  forgot- 
ten me." 

His  eyes  darkened  again. 

"  Forgotten  ?  And  left  you  to  bear  it 
alone  .  .  .  ' 

"  Stop !"  she  cried  with  gleaming  eyes.  "  I 
love  him." 

He  bent  his  head,  silenced,  but  raging  in- 
wardly. 

"  You  shall  not  say  a  word  against  him  ;  it 


27 *  JACK   RAYMOND. 

was  my  own  choice.  He  wanted  me,  and  I 
gave  myself ;  I  never  haggled  or  bargained  or 
asked  that  he  should  marry  me.  He  has  had 
his  joy,  and  I  pay  the  cost  of  it.  Why  not, 
if  I'm  content?  It  was  a  free  gift." 

She  stopped  and  put  her  hand  up  to  the 
bruised  temple. 

"  Oh,  this  pain  in  my  head!  I'm  half  blind 
.  .  .  Listen,  Jack ;  if  I  am  a  coward  at  the 
end,  and  turn  against  him  when  I'm  not  my 
real  self,  you're  to  remember  always  that  any 
thing  I  say  will  be  a  lie.  I  have  nothing  to 
complain  of — nothing." 

Suddenly  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She 
threw  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"  See  what  a  brute  I  am !  I  come  to  you 
like  a  starving  dog  begging  for  shelter  ;  and 
when  you  take  me  in  I  do  nothing  but 
make  conditions." 

"  My  treasure,  you  shall  make  all  the  con- 
ditions you  like  if  you'll  only  stay  with  me." 

"  Then  let  me  make  one  more  ;  a  fearful 
one." 

She  took  both  his  hands;  her  own  were 
burning. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  273 

"  Promise  that  if  I  die  next  May,  and  the 
child  lives,  you'll  adopt  it,  kill  it, — any  thing 
you  will ;  but  save  it  from  uncle  somehow." 

He  kissed  her  forehead  solemnly.  4<  There 
was  no  need  to  ask  that  promise." 

"  It's  one  that  you  probably  won't  be  called 
on  to  keep.  There's  not  .  .  . 

She  broke  off;  then  finished  the  sentence 
deliberately.  "  Not  much  hope  of  that. 
We're  frightfully  strong,  we  Raymonds." 

"  And  frightfully  lonely  too,  sometimes. 
Keep  alive  if  you  can,  Molly." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  wide  and 
wistful. 

"  Are  you  so  utterly  alone  ?  I  thought 
.  .  .  you  had  some  friends." 

"  I  have  Theo.     But  Theo  is  ..." 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  and  stared 
absently  into  the  fire.  Presently  he  recovered 
himself  with  a  start. 

"  Molly,  darling,  how  you  shiver  !  What 
was  I  thinking  of  not  to  send  you  to  bed  at 
once ! " 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  JACK,"  said  Molly,  coming  into  the 
meagre  little  front  room,  "  I  wish  you'd  put 
that  microscope  away  for  half  an  hour ;  you 
look  fagged  to  death." 

Jack  raised  his  head  from  the  specimens. 
He  had  been  straining  his  eyes  over  them 
ever  since  he  came  in  from  the  hospital.  On 
Saturday  afternoons  the  work  was  always 
heavy  in  the  crowded  out-patients'  depart- 
ment ;  and  to-day,  in  the  thick  November  fog 
and  the  reek  of  gas  and  damp  humanity  and 
unwashed  clothing,  he  had  begun,  strong 
as  he  was,  to  feel  tired  and  sick. 

"You  have  no  business  cutting  sections  till 
you've  had  some  dinner,"  said  Molly  ;  "  you'll 
only  cut  them  too  thick,  and  get  a  headache 
as  well." 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right ;  only  the  out-patients 
are  so  unreasonable.  They  will  all  talk  at 
once  on  these  foggy  days.  The  poor  things 

274 


JACK   RAYMOND.  275 

seem  to  get  flurried,  like  the  cart-horses, 
with  slipping  about  in  the  mud.  I  came  in 
splashed  up  to  my  hat." 

Molly  put  her  arm  round  his  neck.  They 
had  been  living  together  for  nearly  four  years 
now,  and  had  learned  to  read  each  other  as 
only  close  friends  can  read.  No  one  else 
would  have  seen  from  the  line  of  his  mouth 
that  he  was  depressed  as  well  as  tired. 

"  Is  it  bad  news  ? "  she  asked  softly,  with 
her  cheek  against  his  hair. 

"  No,  nothing  in  particular.  I'm  an  idiot  to 
get  down  in  the  mouth  now,  just  when  I've 
got  a  good  appointment  at  last,  and  this  big 
stroke  of  luck  with  the  Medical  Congress." 

"  Perhaps  that's  why.  I  never  used  to 
worry  over  weekly  accounts  in  the  days  when 
we  could't  get  enough  to  eat,  as  I  do  now 
with  three  pounds  a  week  for  housekeeping." 

"You  needn't  worry,  old  girl;  the  last 
shilling's  worth  of  debt  will  be  cleared  off 
next  month.  You  see  our  difficulties  are  all 
over  now ;  even  the  private  practice  is  be- 
ginning to  flourish." 

She  kissed  him,  laughing. 


276  JACK   RAYMOND. 

"  And  that's  why  you  get  the  blues  ?  You 
and  I  are  contemptible  frauds,  Jack  ;  our 
courage  is  only  good  for  hard  times ;  it  all 
fizzles  out  at  our  fingers'  ends  at  the  first  bit 
of  prosperity." 

"  You're  right,"  he  answered  gravely ; 
"  I'm  not  worth  my  salt.  Two  years  ago, 
with  the  child  ill  and  not  a  sixpence  coming 
in,  I  shouldn't  have  got  fidgetted  by  a  fog 
and  a  few  little  worries  ;  I'm  getting  spoiled. 
It's  your  fault,  Moll  ;  if  you  coddle  me  this 
way  I  shall  end  by  growing  fat  and  sensitive 
and  ill-tempered,  like  a  rich  old  patient  with 
nothing  to  do  but  imagine  troubles." 

"  You'd  better  not,  or  I  shall  hand  you  over 
to  Johnny  to  be  suppressed.  He'll  find  you 
plenty  to  do." 

"  Yes,  and  I've  plenty  to  do  as  it  is,  and 
here  I  am  fooling  about  and  wasting  time. 
It's  no  use  the  Congress  people  inviting  me 
to  show  sections  if  I  haven't  got  any  ready 
to  show.  They  ought  all  to  be  in  Edinburgh 
by  the  isth." 

Molly  still  kept  her  arm  about  his  neck. 

"Wait  just  a  minute.    You  haven't  told  me 


JACK   RAYMOND.  277 

what  the  '  few  little  worries  '  are  ?  Hospital 
patients  ?" 

"  Oh,  partly  that ;  and  then  Theo  ..." 

"  You  had  a  letter  this  morning  ?  " 

Her  voice  was  quite  under  control,  and  as 
she  leaned  above  him  he  could  not  see  her 
eyes. 

"Yes,  I'm  anxious  about  him.  He's  writing 
a  set  of  Polish  dances  for  stringed  instruments, 
and  he  says  the  music  takes  on  shapes  and 
colours  and  dances  round  his  bed  all  night. 
His  handwriting  is  unsteady,  too;  you  know 
what  that  sort  of  thing  always  means  with 
him." 

Molly  was  still  looking  out  across  her 
brother's  head,  with  wide,  grave  eyes.  He 
sighed,  and  added  in  his  patient  way  : 

"  He  doesn't  say  who  the  woman  is  this 
time,  but  I  suppose  there  must  be  one ;  it 
seems  to  be  the  inevitable  condition  of  his 
doing  creative  work.  It's  a  bit  difficult  to 
understand  how  any  one's  affections  can  jump 
about  that  way." 

There  was  a  sudden  little  pause  ;  then  the 
girl  said  softly : 


278  JACK   RAYMOND. 

*•  Still,  there  is  this ;  if  a  rainbow  is  not  a 
permanent  thing,  it  is  at  least  a  clean  and 
beautiful  one.  An  artist  is  a  kind  of  glorious 
child;  his  instinct  protects  him  from  sordid 
entanglements." 

"That  makes  it  all  the  worse,"  Jack  broke 
in  gloomily.  "  If  he  got  into  vulgar  intrigues 
with  society  flirts,  as  ninety-nine  per  cent,  of 
the  successful  musicians  do  ..." 

"  He  would  never  have  written  the  '  Crocui 
Field '  Symphony." 

"  No,  that's  true  ;  his  music  would  havs 
got  vulgar  too.  But  at  least  no  one  would 
suffer.  As  it  is — Molly,  my  heart  aches  for 
the  women  that  have  loved  him.  That  little 
Austrian  princess — the  year  that  Johnny  was 
born,  you  know  ;  I  had  a  long  talk  with  her. 
The  poor  child  honestly  believed  he  would  be 
faithful  to  her,  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  he 
believed  it  himself.  I've  no  doubt  she's  got 
over  it  now,  and  married  as  her  father  wished  ; 
but  do  you  think  she'll  ever  be  the  same 
creature  again  ?  He  has  smashed  her  youth 
in  pieces,  and  gone  off  to  another  toy." 

"Just  as  Johnny  would  do  if  you  gave  him 


JACK  RAYMOND.  279 

a  precious  thing  to  play  with.  It  is  the  privi- 
lege of  babies  and  of  gods  and  of  all  things 
defenceless  and  divine ;  they  take  our  joys 
and  break  them,  and  we  comfort  ourselves 
with  the  broken  pieces." 

Her  brother  turned  round  suddenly,  and 
took  her  in  his  arms.  They  were  both  silent 
for  a  little  while. 

"  How  you  have  softened,  Molly,  since  the 
child  came  !  Sometimes  you  remind  me  of 
Mother." 

"  Theo's  mother  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  or  Christ's  mother.  She  seemed  to 
me  like  the  Catholic  idea  of  the  Madonna: 
everybody's  mother." 

"  So  long  as  I  am  Johnny's  mother — Jack, 
how  could  I  be  hard  against  any  one  now, 
when  I  have  the  child?" 

She  sat  down  by  the  fire,  drawing  towards 
her  a  basket  of  clothes  to  mend.  Jack  began 
to  whistle  over  his  specimens,  and  she  to  darn 
earnestly  at  a  stocking;  neither  was  in  the 
mood  for  further  speech. 

"  Mummy ! "  a  small  voice  wailed  from  the 
back  room  ;  "  my  house  has  tumbled  down." 


28o  JACK   RAYMOND. 

Molly  rose  and  opened  the  folding  doors. 
The  bricks  lay  scattered  on  the  carpet,  and 
forlorn  among  the  ruins  sat  Johnny,  round- 
eyed  and  on  the  verge  of  tears.  His  mother 
picked  him  up  and  carried  him  into  the  front 
room. 

"  Never  mind,  sonnie  ;  we'll  build  another 
house  to-morrow.  Come  and  play  here  till 
your  tea  is  ready.  You  mustn't  shake  the 
table,  though  ;  Jack's  cutting  sections." 

Johnny  wriggled  out  of  her  arms,  and  ran 
up  to  the  table,  his  blue  eyes  inquisitive  and 
shining.  He  had  the  face  of  a  cherub  and 
the  habits  of  a  despotic  emperor. 

"Uncle!"  he  said,  stretching  out  a  fat 
hand  towards  the  microscope ;  "  I  want  to 
see.  Uncle!" 

The  word  was  a  new  one  in  his  vocabulary, 
and  he  was  proud  of  it.  Susan,  the  maid, 
had  just  been  explaining  to  him  that  little 
boys  ought  not  to  call  their  uncles  :  "  Jack." 

Jack  put  up  his  left  hand  suddenly,  and  bit 
it.  The  next  instant  he  remembered  that 
even  the  gods  have  some  mercy,  and  that  his 
childhood  was  over. 


JACK   RAYMOND.  28: 

"  I  want  to  see  ! "  Johnny  repeated  imperi- 
ously. He  was  not  accustomed  to  be  kept 
waiting. 

"  Don't  worry  Jack,  darling,"  said  the 
mother  ;  "he's  busy." 

"  He  doesn't  worry  me  ;   I  like  to  have  him." 

He  stooped  down  and  took  the  child  on  his 
knee. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  to  see,  old  man  ? 
There's  nothing  much  to  look  at  to-day." 

"  Can't  you  make  the  animals  wiggle 
about?" 

"Animals?" 

"Infusoria,  he  means,"  Molly  put  in. 
"You  showed  him  a  drop  of  water  the  other 
day." 

"  Oh,  those !  No,  chick,  I've  no  pond 
water  to-day,  and  we  don't  let  animals  wiggle 
about  in  the  water  from  our  tap." 

"Why?" 

"For  fear  they  should  wiggle  about  in  your 
inside  and  give  you  a  bad  throat.  There, 
you  can  get  the  high  chair  and  sit  beside  me, 
only  don't  jerk  my  elbow.  Oh,  confound  the 
screw!" 


282  JACK   RAYMOND. 

He  was  stooping,  with  knitted  brows,  to 
adjust  the  microscope.  The  king  of  the 
household  looked  on  critically. 

"  You're  twisting  him  wrong,"  he  remarked 
in  a  severe  voice. 

44  True  for  you,  sonnie;  and  that  little  head 
in  my  light  doesn't  help  me  to  twist  it  right." 

"  I  think  I  hear  Susan  coming,"  Molly 
interposed.  "And  I  think  there  are  hot 
scones  for  tea.  We'd  better  hurry  up  and 
get  those  grubby  paws  washed." 

She  opened  the  door,  and  Johnny,  radiant 
at  the  prospect  of  scones,  trotted  away  to 
Susan.  Presently  little  squeals  of  delight 
were  heard  coming  from  the  kitchen. 

"  Molly,"  said  Jack,  with  his  head  down 
over  the  screws  of  the  microscope,  "don't 
let  the  child  call  me  'Uncle,'  there's  a  good 
soul." 

•  •  •  »  • 

The  diphtheria  epidemic  which  was  spread- 
ing through  the  south  of  England  had 
reached  Cornwall.  In  Porthcarrick  and  the 
neighbouring  moorland  hamlets  child  after 
child  sickened  and  died.  It  had  been  a  wet 


JACK   RAYMOND.  283 

and  stormy  autumn,  a  hard  time  for  the 
fisher-folk.  Many  lives  had  been  lost  in  the 
rough  weather ;  and  what  little  fish  was 
dragged  to  market  over  sodden  roads  and 
howling  moors  brought  in  small  return  for 
the  labour  and  peril  it  had  cost.  Poverty, 
grief,  and  weariness  had  lain  heavily  on  the 
storm-beaten  villages  ever  since  the  Septem- 
ber gales  ;  now,  at  Christmas-time,  the  sick- 
ness had  come. 

But  for  their  Vicar,  the  Porthcarrick  people 
would  have  been  in  evil  case.  Dr.  Jenkins, 
middle-aged,  overworked,  handicapped  by  the 
incessant  cares  of  a  small  income  and  a  large 
family,  did  his  best ;  but  conscientious  and 
kindly  as  he  was,  he  could  not  have  stood 
against  the  dead-weight  of  general  misery 
without  the  support  of  the  stronger  nature. 
It  was  the  Vicar  who  enrolled  volunteer 
helpers  and  collected  subscriptions ;  who 
tramped  over  the  soaked  heather  from  cot- 
tage to  cottage,  visiting  the  sick  and  be- 
reaved, investigating  cases  of  distress,  and 
finding  temporary  homes,  away  from  con- 
tagion, for  the  brothers  and  sisters  of  the 


284  JACK   RAYMOND. 

stricken  children.  In  these  black  weeks  he 
was  on  foot  early  and  late ;  quite  white-haired 
now  and  a  little  slower  in  his  movements 
than  when  Jack  had  known  him,  but  other- 
wise hardly  changed ;  erect  and  uncompro- 
mising as  of  old. 

As  for  Mrs.  Raymond,  she  remained  the 
dutiful  wife  that  she  had  always  been.  She 
was  too  feeble,  too  heavy  and  asthmatic,  to 
tramp  the  stony  moors  as  her  husband  did, 
and  for  courage,  she  had  none  to  help  herself 
or  others ;  nor  could  she  dare  to  mock  the 
gods  by  offering  consolation  to  any  woman 
who  had  lost  a  child ;  but  what  little  one  so 
poor  in  spirit  had  to  give  she  gave  submis- 
sively, without  complaint.  She  turned  her 
old  black  silk  gown  once  more  to  make  it  last 
another  year,  and  timidly  slipped  into  the 
Vicar's  hand  the  money  she  had  saved  up  to 
buy  a  new  one  "for  your  coal  and  blanket 
fund,  Josiah."  Her  mornings  were  spent  in 
making  soups  and  jellies  for  the  sick ;  her  after- 
noons in  sewing  or  knitting  for  them ;  but  it 
was  the  Vicar  who  had  to  distribute  the  gifts. 
In  age  as  in  youth,  she  hid  behind  her  master 


JACK    RAYMOND.  285 

and  asked  his  approval  at  every  step ;  a 
patient  Griselda,  grown  old  in  obedience, 
behind  whose  eyes  still  lurked  the  unlaid 
ghost  of  fear. 

The  heart-breaking  rain  spent  itself  at  last  ; 
and  one  morning,  laying  the  cloth  for  lunch 
in  the  dreary,  immaculate  sitting-room,  she 
saw  an  unfamiliar  gleam  of  sunshine  fall 
across  the  table. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  lift  up  her  heart 
in  thanksgiving  for  a  merciful  answer  to 
prayer  :  if  dry  weather  should  be  granted  at 
last,  perhaps  the  sickness  might  abate.  Her 
second  was  the  result  of  lifelong  habit  :  she 
spread  a  newspaper  upon  the  floor  to  save 
the  carpet. 

The  board  of  health  officer  from  Truro 
came  in  with  the  Vicar  for  a  hasty  lunch ; 
they  were  to  attend  a  committee  meeting,  and 
then  to  make  a  round  of  visits  together  to 
places  suspected  of  unsanitary  conditions. 

"  I  shall  probably  be  out  late,"  the  Vicar 
told  his  wife.  "  There  has  been  another 
death  near  Zennor  Cross,  and  I  must  go 
round  there  when  we  have  finished." 


286  JACK   RAYMOND. 

41  Don't  kill  yourself  with  work,"  said  the 
visitor.  "  What  would  Porthcarrick  do  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  diphtheria  we  hope  to  kill,"  Mr. 
Raymond  answered  bravely  ;  "  and  we  shall 
do  it  soon  now,  if  the  Almighty  in  His  mercy 
should  send  us  fair  weather." 

The  official  nodded  approvingly.  He  was 
an  earnest  worker  himself  and  a  lover  of 
workers,  and  the  Vicar's  indomitable  energy 
delighted  him.  "  What  a  splendid  old  fel- 
low!" he  had  said  to  Dr.  Jenkins.  "As  stiff 
as  a  cast-iron  gate  to  look  at ;  and  just 
see  the  work  he  gets  through!"  He  looked 
at  the  hard  old  face  with  genuine  admira- 
tion. 

"Talking  of  diphtheria,"  he  said,  "reminds 
me.  I  wonder  are  you  by  any  chance  related 
to  the  Dr.  Raymond  in  Bloomsbury  who  has 
been  making  experiments  lately  with  the 
diphtheritic  virus  ?  I  saw  an  article  about  it 
in  this  week's  Lancet;  he's  to  read  a  paper  at 
the  Edinburgh  Congress.  His  theory  seems 
to  be  attracting  a  good  deal  of  attention." 

If  he  had  turned  to  the  woman  her  scared 
eyes  would  have  silenced  him  ;  but  he  was 


JACK   RAYMOND.  287 

looking  at  Mr.  Raymond,  and  the  grey  face 
never  twitched. 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  relative." 

"  Really  ?  How  small  the  world  is,  to  be 
sure  !  I  spent  a  week  in  the  same  boarding- 
house  with  Dr.  Raymond  last  summer ;  I  was 
taking  a  holiday  on  the  south  coast,  and  he 
was  there  with  a  sister  of  his,  a  young  widow, 
I  think,  with  a  little  boy — such  a  beautiful 
child!" 

Then  he  became  conscious  of  the  strained 
immobility  of  his  hosts,  and  stopped. 

"  He  is  a  relative,"  the  Vicar  repeated  ;  "  but 
not  an  acquaintance." 

The  conversation  flagged  awkwardly  for  a 
few  minutes ;  then  the  visitor  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"  It's  time  to  go,  I  think." 

In  the  garden  the  Vicar  stopped  short. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  to  his  guest ;  "  I  for- 
got a  message  for  my  wife.  I  will  catch  you 
up  the  road." 

He  went  back  into  the  house.  His  wife 
was  standing  where  they  had  left  her,  quite 
still,  her  eyes  on  the  floor. 


288  JACK   RAYMOND. 

11  Sarah,"  he  began,  and  paused  in  the  door- 
way. 

She  started,  then  recovered  her  self-posses- 
sion, and  came  up  to  him. 

"  Did  you  forget  any  thing?" 

He  hesitated,  looking  away  from  her.  "  You 
perhaps  feel  lonely  when  I  am  out  so  much  ?" 

"  No,  Josiah  ;  I'm  used  to  being  alone." 

"Yes."     He  paused  again. 

"  I  was  wondering  .  .  .  whether  you  would 
like  Dr.  Jenkins's  little  girl  to  come  and  sit 
with  you  sometimes.  She  is  a  nice,  quiet  little 
thing,  and  you  were  always  so  fond  of  chil- 
dren ..." 

The  words  died  in  his  throat  as  he  saw  her 
draw  back  from  him,  her  hands  outstretched, 
her  eyes  widened,  full  of  dread. 

"  No,  no !  Josiah.  Oh,  don't  bring  a  child 
inhere!" 

His  face  had  turned  to  stone. 

"  You  mean,  Sarah   .    .    .    ? " 

They  stood  still  and  looked  at  each  other. 
He  was  brave  enough,  but  not  she.  Her  eyes 
sank  ;  her  old  hand  fluttered  against  the  skirt 
of  her  gown. 


JACK    RAYMOND.  289 

"I  ...  I'm  not  so  strong  as  I  was  ;  .  .  . 
and  children  are  so  noisy  .  .  . 

He  had  not  flinched.  "  It  is  as  you  prefer," 
he  said,  and  went  out. 

She  watched  him  from  her  window  as  he 
walked  up  the  lane  ;  a  black  and  sunless  blot 
upon  the  landscape  ;  correct,  professional,  with 
stubborn  shoulders  still  unbowed  under  the 
weight  of  grey  hair  and  of  shame.  Then  she 
sat  down  at  her  neat  work-table  to  darn  his 
socks. 

The  church  clock  struck  the  hour;  and, 
looking  up,  she  saw  the  door  of  the  board 
school  open  and  a  crowd  of  little  girls  coming 
out,  laughing  and  chattering,  their  satchels 
swinging  from  their  wrists.  She  put  down 
her  work. 

"  My  eyes  seem  failing  lately,"  she  said 
aloud,  as  if  in  the  empty  room  there  had  been 
still  a  listener,  with  whom  she  must  keep  up 
the  decencies  of  old  hypocrisy.  "  They  ache 
when  I  sew."  And  she  drew  her  hand  across 
them  furtively. 

Then  she  rose  and  pulled  her  stiff,  white 
curtain  aside,  very  carefully,  not  to  spoil  its 


290  JACK    RAYMOND. 

starched  perfection,  and  looked  out  at  the 
children.  They  came  running  down  the  lane ; 
some  passed  her  window  without  looking  up  ; 
others  glanced  over  her,  where  she  sat  forlorn 
and  old,  much  as  she,  in  her  time  long  ago 
had  often  glanced  over  Spotty. 

She  shrank  away,  as  Spotty  used  to  shrink 
when  any  one  crossed  the  yard,  and  drew  the 
curtain  forward  again.  But  she  peeped  be- 
tween its  frilled  edge  and  the  shutter  to  see 
the  children.  Strange  children  all,  with  cold, 
unfriendly  eyes ;  but  some  of  them  had  satin 
cheeks  and  wind-kissed  freckles  here  and  there ; 
and  all  of  them  had  nimble  feet  and  voices  full 
of  laughter  ;  and  one  (but  she  turned  her  head 
away  when  that  one  passed)  had  thick  and 
tawny  curls  that  caught  the  sunlight  where 
some  other  woman's  hand  had  brushed  them 
back  and  tied  them  with  a  ribbon. 

"Johnny  dangerously  ill.  Diphtheria. 
Crying  for  you." 

Jack  repeated  the  words  to  himself  over 
and  over  again.  The  wheels  of  the  train 


JACK    RAYMOND.  291 

hammered  them  out;  the  rattle  of  the  win- 
dows, the  breathing  of  his  sleepy  fellow-pas- 
sengers, the  heavy  thumping  of  the  thing 
that  ached  somewhere  inside  his  chest  or 
somewhere  in  the  top  of  his  head  (he  was  not 
quite  sure  which)  all  worried  and  pursued  him 
with  their  senseless  iteration.  Sometimes 
the  refrain  would  break  off  for  a  moment  and 
let  him  hear  another  one  that  was  going  on 
more  softly  underneath  it,  scarcely  audible, 
but  always  going  on :  "  You  II  come  too 
late ;  you  II  come  too  late;  you1  II  come  too 
late." 

Surely  that  must  be  St.  Albans,  that  blur 
of  brown  streets  in  the  shadowy  landscape  as 
the  train  rushed  past.  He  would  soon  be 
home  now.  But  it  was  a  long  time  since 
Molly's  telegram  had  called  him  from  his 
breakfast  in  Edinburgh  and  sent  him  tearing  to 
the  station  for  the  first  train  back  to  London. 
Any  thing  might  have  happened  since  then. 
If  only  he  had  not  gone  to  the  medical  Con- 
gress! If  only  .  .  . 

He  raised  the  window  blind  and  looked 
out.  It  was  growing  dark  already,  but  it 


292  JACK    RAYMOND. 

grows  dark  so  early  in  winter.  .  .  Patches 
of  snow  gleamed  faintly  here  and  there  in  the 
level  pasture  land. 

Somehow  he  had  never  realised  till  to  day 
what  the  child  was  to  him.  Indeed,  he  had 
never  had  much  time  for  thinking  about  his 
personal  affections ;  there  were  always  so 
many  things  to  do,  what  with  the  hospital 
and  the  microscope  work,  and  chance  jobs  of 
coaching  students  for  examinations,  to  make 
both  ends  meet.  One  couldn't  afford  to 
neglect  opportunities  for  earning  a  few  odd 
pounds  here  and  there,  with  three  mouths  to 
feed  and  Johnny's  education  to  save  up  for. 
And  when  he  did  get  free,  he  was  tired,  or 
worried  about  patients,  or  rushing  across  the 
Continent  in  express  trains  in  response  to 
wild  telegrams  from  Theo.  .  . 

Poor  Theo  !  The  periodical  tragedies  with 
his  duchesses  and  countesses  had  a  trick  of 
coming  at  such  inconvenient  times  ;  and  they 
were  so  real  to  him,  while  they  lasted.  Only 
a  year  ago  he  had  tried  to  asphyxiate  himself 
with  charcoal  fumes,  together  with  the  mis- 
understood and  beautiful  young  wife  of  some 


JACK    RAYMOND.  293 

bald-headed  ambassador.  The  farewell  tele- 
gram had  come  when  Jack  was  down  with 
influenza,  and  he  had  dragged  himself  up  out 
of  bed  and  caught  the  mail  for  Brussels. 
(It  was  considerate  of  nature,  by  the  way,  to 
have  made  him  as  strong  as  a  horse.)  He 
had  arrived  just  in  time  to  open  the  win- 
dows, and  to  keep  the  scandal  out  of 
the  papers,  and  administer  first  restoratives 
and  then  consolation  and  fatherly  advice 
to  the  two  grown-up  children.  They  had 
probably  forgotten  each  other's  existence  by 
now. 

"  You  II  come  too  late.  You  II  come  too 
late.  .  .  " 

It  was  a  bit  hard  that  it  should  be  diph- 
theria, the  very  disease  that  he  had  toiled  and 
laboured  over,  that  had  been  the  centre  of  his 
secret  hopes  for  the  last  three  years.  He 
was  nearly  convinced  now  that  he  was  on  the 
track  of  a  discovery ;  but  what  use  are  dis- 
coveries if  they  cannot  save  the  child  you 
love  ?  What  use  is  any  thing  if  it  comes  too 
late? 

He  lowered  the  blind  again  and  leaned  back 


294  JACK    RAYMOND. 

in  his  corner  with  closed  eyes.  He  had  been 
tired  when  he  left  Edinburgh  ;  and  now  his 
head  throbbed  like  a  steam-thresher.  He 
must  keep  still  for  a  few  minutes  and  not 
listen  to  the  burden  of  the  wheels. 

Ah,  the  staircase  .  .  .  and  the  door  that 
creaked  when  his  uncle  pushed  it  open  .  .  . 
and  the  room  with  the  sloping  ceiling  .  .  . 
the  two  rafters  .  .  .  He  started  and  opened 
his  eyes.  He  had  slipped  back  somehow  to 
childhood,  to  the  vicarage  at  Porthcarrick,  to 
the  room  of  horrors.  It  was  some  years  now 
since  he  had  last  been  troubled  by  that 
particular  nightmare,  the  same  which  had 
haunted  him  after  Helen  died.  He  brushed 
one  hand  across  his  forehead ;  it  was  quite 
wet. 

This  was  absurd;  a  man  who  has  things  to 
do  can't  afford  to  go  in  for  nerves  and  fits  of 
the  horrors,  as  if  he  were  Theo.  If  only  the 
child  would  live  .  .  . 

"  Tickets,  please  ! " 

As  the  door  jerked  open  he  sat  up  straight 
and  realised  dimly  that  he  had  been  bargain- 
ing in  his  sleep  with  some  unknown  god ; 


JACK    RAYMOND.  295 

promising  to  forget  Porthcarrick,  to  wipe  out 
the  image  of  the  gable  room,  if  the  child  might 
but  live. 

•  •  •  » 

His  sister  met  him  under  the  disinfectant 
sheet  on  the  landing  of  the  stairs.  Her  face 
wore  a  strangely  passive  look,  as  if  she  had 
been  suddenly  awakened,  as  if  her  eyes  were 
still  heavy  with  sleep. 

"  Molly,"  he  said,  and  paused ;  then  again, 
in  a  whisper:  "Molly  .  .  .  ?" 

She  leaned  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 

"  You're  too  late." 

They  went  into  the  room.  It  had  already 
been  put  in  order ;  a  shaded  lamp  burned 
beside  the  cot  where  Johnny  lay  like  a  big 
wax  doll,  his  yellow  hair  spread  round  him. 
A  bunch  of  snowdrops  had  been  placed  in  his 
right  hand.  Jack  knelt  down  and  stayed  a 
long  time  motionless  and  silent.  At  last  he 
uncovered  his  face  and  kissed  the  rigid  baby 
hands.  As  he  rose,  the  sleeve  of  his  coat 
brushed  against  the  lamp-shade  and  tilted  it 
back.  A  band  of  yellow  light  fell  across  the 


296  JACK   RAYMOND. 

cot  and  lit  up  the  profile  of  the  little  corpse. 
It  was  like  Helen's. 

Jack  stood  quite  still  beside  the  cot.  The 
minutes  dragged  by  heavily,  and  he  stood 
looking.  Something  seemed  to  have  dried  up 
in  him,  and  withered.  One  made  so  many 
mistakes  in  life,  and  when  one  found  them 
out  they  mattered  very  little;  indeed,  nothing 
in  the  world  mattered  much. 

Something  moved  on  the  other  side  of  the 
cot.  It  was  Molly;  and  as  he  looked  up  their 
eyes  met.  She  put  out  her  hands  as  if  he  had 
struck  her. 

"Ah,  don't  look  so  hard!  He  wanted  to 
tell  you  ;  it  was  not  his  fault,  it  was  mine  !" 

"  It  was  mine,"  he  answered  wearily,  and 
turned  away.  "  I  might  have  seen." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  leaned  upon  the 
mantle-piece,  looking  down  into  the  fireless 
grate.  Molly  came  up  to  him. 

"  I  couldn't  tell  you,  dear ;  it  might  have 
made  you  hate  him.  He  has  no  one  else  in 
the  world  that  will  love  him  faithfully,  only 
you  and  me ;  and  me  he  has  forgotten.  If 
you  were  to  desert  him  .  .  . 


JACK    RAYMOND.  297 

She  broke  off.  Jack  had  not  moved,  and 
his  face  was  still  hard.  She  slipped  her  arm 
about  his  neck,  as  Helen  used  to  do. 

"  Remember,  he  is  not  quite  a  human  being. 
It  is  not  fair  to  blame  him  if  he  hurts  us ;  he 
can't  understand  responsibilities,  any  more 
than  an  angel  might,  or  a  sky-lark.  It's  not 
his  fault  that  he  has  genius.  And  if  I  bore 
a  child  to  him,  he  bore  one  to  me ;  his  first 
symphony.  Anyhow,  if  there  ever  was  any 
thing  to  forgive,  I  forgave  it  long  ago. 
Some  one  must  pay  for  the  music." 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  hopeless  gesture. 

"You  don't  understand.  It  wasn't  of  you 
I  was  thinking.  You  can't  be  quite  forsaken 
while  I  live ;  and  at  the  worst  you're  a  grown 
woman  and  can  defend  yourself,  as  far  as  any 
creature  can,  in  a  world  like  this.  But  if  you 
and  I  had  happened  to  die, — there  are  so  many 
chances  in  life;  and  the  child  had  lived,  and 
fallen  into  uncle's  hands  ...  I  wonder,  did 
he  never  think  of  that?" 

She  drew  his  head  down  against  her  cheek. 

"Dear,  that  is  morbid  and  unjust;  it's  not 
like  you,  you  are  always  so  just.  There  was 


298  JACK    RAYMOND. 

never  much  danger  for  Johnny  ;  surely  either 
you  or  I  could  always  have  managed  to  save 
him  from  that,  if  only  with  a  little  chloroform. 
And  anyway  the  fates  have  been  merciful ; 
whatever  they  may  do  to  us,  they  have  at 
least  spared  the  child.  Jack,  you  have  no 
right  to  be  bitter  against  him,  the  child  has 
suffered  no  wrong.  He  has  hurt  no  one  but 
me,  and  I  have  not  complained." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  answered,  sighing. 
"  It  will  make  no  difference ;  nothing  will 
ever  make  any  difference.  He's  her  son  and 
he  has  a  right  to  me.  I  must  just  bear  it." 

A  knock  at  the  street-door  roused  him. 

"That  sounds  like  a  telegram.  From 
Edinburgh,  perhaps;  I  was  to  have  shown 
some  sections  to-night.  For  me,  Susan  ? 
No,  there's  no  answer." 

There  was  a  little  hush  after  he  shut  the 
door. 

"Is  it  from  Edinburgh?"  Molly  asked, 
looking  round.  Jack  was  standing  by  the 
table,  the  telegram  still  in  his  hand.  As  he 
turned  his  head  to  answer,  the  look  on  his  face 
cut  her  to  the  heart.  Something  faint  and 


JACK   RAYMOND.  299 

bitter,  scarcely  a  smile,  flickered  for  an  instant 
round  the  bearded  mouth. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Something  wrong  with 
one  of  the  duchesses,  I  suppose." 

He  handed  her  the  telegram.  It  was  dated 
from  Paris. 

"A  dreadful  'misfortune  has  happened. 
Come  to  me. —  Theo." 

She  laid  the  paper  down  in  silence  and 
went  back  to  her  place  by  the  dead  child. 

Jack  passed  a  hand  across  his  eyes.  A  dim 
reflection  of  his  childish  misery  flitted  before 
him,  and  vanished;  a  half-forgotten  image  of 
a  bird  flying  away  from  an  open  cage.  He 
went  back  to  the  cot. 

"  Molly,  how  much  money  have  we  in  the 
house?" 

"  Three  sovereigns  and  a  little  silver." 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"I'd  better  take  the  gold  and  write  you  a 
cheque  to  go  on  with.  Where's  the  carbolic, 
dear?  Ask  Susan  to  call  a  hansom  while  I 
get  disinfected  ;  I've  only  just  time  to  catch 


3oo  JACK   RAYMOND. 

the  boat-train  ;    it  starts  at  nine  from  Charing 
Cross." 

He  stood  a  moment  silent,  looking  down  ; 
then  stooped,  and  drew  the  sheet  over 
Johnny's  head. 


THE   END 


WHEN  BLADES  ARE  OUT  AND 
LOVE'S  AFIELD 

By  CYRUS  TOWNSEND   BRADY, 

Author  of  "  The  Freedom  of  the  Sea,"  etc. 

With  eight  full-page  illustrations  by  E.  Plaisted  Abbott  and 

many  decorations  by  Edward  Stratton  Holloway. 

iamo.     Ornamental  binding,  $1.50. 


"  This  new  novel  should  outstrip  all  Mr.  Brady's  preceding  works 
in  popularity,  for  while  retaining  the  strength  and  virility  of  his  earlier 
books,  it  much  surpasses  them  in  heart  interest  and  charm." — Ar- 
gonaut, San  Francisco. 

"The  action  of  the  story  is  spirited,  the  love  interest  is  strong,  and 
bits  of  revolutionary  history  are  cleverly  set  into  the  background. 
The  description  of  the  stockade  in  which  the  interests  of  love  and 
war  stand  on  an  equal  basis  is  one  of  the  best  things  in  the  book.  It 
is  a  climax  to  be  proud  of." — Boston  Herald. 

"  It  will  fill  a  reading  hour  with  delight  for  almost  any  lover  of  a 
good  novel,  and  it  is  a  perfect  gem  of  a  volume  in  binding  and  illus- 
tration— one  of  the  daintiest  and  prettiest  that  ever  came  to  The 
World's  table."  —  World,  New  York. 

"The  author's  soldiers  are  real  soldiers,  his  girls  real  women." — 
Boston  Journal. 

"Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  copies  of  it  'go.'  There  is 
little  doubt  that  this  is  another  successful  book  of  the  sort." — 
Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

"  A  romance  of  love  and  war,  with  two  delightful  heroines  who 
are  certain  to  hold  feminine  interest." — Press,  Philadelphia. 

1 '  Mr.  Brady  has  most  happily  carried  into  execution  the  plot  of  his 
story.  His  figures  move  and  live,  his  battle-scenes  are  vigorous  and 
his  love-making  sweet  and  tender.  The  action  of  the  story  is  rapid, 
and  the  reader's  interest  is  held  from  start  to  finish.  The  beautiful 
illustrations  are  the  work  of  E.  Plaisted  Abbott,  and  the  elaborate 
head  and  tail  pieces  are  by  Edward  Stratton  Holloway." — Times, 
Richmond. 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA 


THAT  MAINWARING  AFFAIR 

By  A.  MAYNARD   HARBOUR. 
Illustrated  by  E.  Plaisted  Abbott,     izmo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 


"  Possibly  in  a  detective  story  the  main  object  is  to  thrill.  If  so, 
'That  Mainwaring  Affair'  is  all  right.  The  thrill  is  there,  full 
measure,  pressed  down  and  running  over." — Life,  New  York. 

"The  book  that  reminds  one  of  Anna  Katherine  Green  in  her 
palmiest  days.  .  .  .  Keeps  the  reader  on  the  alert,  defies  the  efforts 
of  those  who  read  backwards,  deserves  the  applause  of  all  who  like 
mystery." — Town  Topics,  New  York. 

"  The  tale  is  well  told,  and  the  intricacies  of  the  plot  so  adroitly 
managed  that  it  is  impossible  to  foresee  the  correct  solution  of  the 
mysterious  case  until  the  final  act  of  the  tragedy.  .  .  .  Although 
vividly  told,  the  literary  style  is  excellent  and  the  story  by.no  means 
sensational,  a  fact  that  raises  it  above  the  level  of  the  old-time  detec- 
tive story." — Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

"The  book  will  hold  the  reader's  attention  from  beginning  to 
end." — Press,  Philadelphia. 

"  A  novel  with  a  most  intricate  and  carefully  unraveled  plot.  .  .  . 
The  treatment  is  pleasantly  original,  and  the  book  can  be  safely 
recommended  to  the  reader  who  likes  his  fiction  to  baffle  him  until 
the  author  is  willing  to  make  it  clear." — North  American,  Phila- 
delphia. 

"It  is  a  thrilling  story  of  crime  and  intrigue,  entirely  free  from 
brutality  of  thought  or  coarseness  of  expression.  The  author  has 
fine  command  of  language  and  the  faculty  of  leaving  just  enough 
unsaid  to  keep  interest  at  the  highest  pitch." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  The  reader  will  be  a  good  guesser,  indeed,  if  he  solves  this  mys- 
tery story  before  the  author  does  it  for  him.  A  pleasant  love  interest 
runs  through  the  pages." — Rocky  Mountain  News,  Denver. 

"  Stories  of  this  kind  are  far  from  novel,  but  few  of  them  have 
been  wrought  with  so  much  literary  skill  as  'That  Mainwaring 
Affair.'  " — Evening  Wisconsin,  Milwaukee. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA 


By   MAURICE    THOMPSON 

Author  of  "  Alice  of  Old  Vincennes." 

SWEETHEART    MANETTE. 

With   a    Frontispiece    by    Emlen    McConnell.      Ornamental. 
I2mo.     $1.25. 


Manette,  sprightly,  naive,  childish  one  moment,  a  wise  little  woman 
the  next,  will  win  many  hearts  besides  those  of  the  men  of  the 
yachting  party  in  old  Bay  St.  Louis,  near  New  Orleans.  Mr. 
Thompson's  book  is  charming  in  matter  and  manner.  The  love  story 
is  fresh  and  touched  by  playful  fancy  and  philosophy. 

' '  The  many  more  than  one  hundred  thousand  readers  of  Mr. 
Thompson's  recent  popular  novel  should  welcome  with  enthusiasm 
'  Sweetheart  Manette,'  redolent  of  romance,  charmingly  told,  and 
brimful  of  interest  from  its  first  page  to  its  last." — Argonaut,  San 
Francisco. 

"  In  recommending  a  book  for  interest  and  literary  merit,  one  can- 
not mention  any  at  this  time  of  publication  surpassing  '  Sweetheart 
Manette.'  It  is  to  be  accounted  one  of  the  best  of  Maurice  Thomp- 
son's excellent  works."  —  Courier,  Boston. 

"  The  story  is  told  with  quiet,  simple  charm,  gathering  much  of  its 
interest  from  the  sparkling  conversations  between  the  various  char- 
acters."— Herald,  Boston. 

"  The  story  tells  a  sweet,  simple  tale  of  love  among  the  bayous  of 
Louisiana,  and  abounds  with  clever  dialogue  and  fine  descriptions  of 
Southern  scenery,  which  the  author  knew  and  loved  so  well." — North 
American,  Philadelphia. 

"  The  story  is  so  well  told  that  the  reader  is  kept  in  doubt  as  to  the 
direction  in  which  the  heroine's  affections  lie.  The  conversation  has 
much  real  interest,  and  the  description  of  Bay  St  Louis,  a  '  secluded 
and  dreary  nook  on  the  Gulf  coast  of  Mississippi,  fifty  miles  east  of 
New  Orleans,'  are  admirable.  Altogether,  Mr.  Thompson,  in 
'Sweetheart  Manette,'  has  given  us  a  tale  which,  while  simple,  has 
the  qualities  that  make  it  most  pleasing  in  its  appeal."  —  The  News, 
Baltimore. 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA 


AT  ODDS  WITH  THE  REGENT 

By  BURTON   E.  STEVENSON. 
With  frontispiece  by  Anna  W.  Betts.     izmo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 


"The  course  of  the  tale  is  rapid,  and  the  many  moving  situations 
follow  each  other  in  a  manner  that  holds  the  reader  captive  till  the 
end." — Boston  Gazette. 

"Full  of  incident,  and  with  a  charming  love-story  interwoven." — 
Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"  The  tale  is  well  worth  reading.  It  opens  in  a  most  interesting 
manner,  with  some  desperate  sword  play  against  a  historical  cut- 
throat— Cartouche — and  half  a  dozen  of  his  rogues,  in  a  street  of 
Paris  at  the  time  of  the  regency,  when  the  Due  de  Richelieu  was  at 
the  height  of  his  career  as  a  heart-breaker  and  the  especial  lover  of 
Louise  de  Valois." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  It  deserves  a  place  among  the  best  of  the  recent  historic  novels, 
and  will  live  no  doubt  long  after  the  present  vogue  has  become  a  thing 
of  the  past.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  read  a  romance  of  the  past  that  is 
not  filled  with  blood-curdling  deeds  after  the  style  of  the  'shilling 
shocker,'  for  Mr.  Stevenson  has  written  a  story  that  appeals  to  the 
best  side  of  one's  nature.  He  has  characterized  noble  men  and  gentle 
women,  who  played  fair  always  and  were  always  true  to  themselves 
and  the  best  of  human  impulses.  The  'Old  Regime,'  as  he  pictures 
it,  was  a  charming  era  when  men  bartered  life  freely,  but  held  honor 
and  plighted  word  dearer  than  existence.  Altogether  the  story  is 
good  as  to  tone,  artistic  development  of  the  plot,  and  finished  style. ' ' 
— St.  Louis  Globe- Democrat. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA 


"CSWTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAOLITY 


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